


Their Place in the World

by mille_libri



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 17:24:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 140,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6479440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mille_libri/pseuds/mille_libri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Torn from the safety of her Circle, Bridget Trevelyan must learn how to live in an unfamiliar world that is hostile to the power she carries; drawn back into a world he thought he had left behind, Blackwall must learn to live the lie he has chosen even as he hides from the past that still haunts him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Green Thing in the Sky

Deep in the wilds of southern Ferelden, a man threw aside the flap of his worn tent, the canvas patched many times in the past decade, and he looked up into the sky, at the glowing green rent that had appeared there.

Another man might have been curious. But not Blackwall. He had passed on the chance to be curious about what the rest of the world did a long, long time ago. This green thing was just the latest of the world’s foibles that he wanted no part of.

Instead, he picked up some kindling and began to stir the coals of his fire. He could already smell the hot coffee he would put on, taste its rich bitterness chasing the cold away. 

But despite his avowed intention to ignore it, the green glow drew his eyes over and over again. Strange crackling fingers of light shot from it, toward the land, and he couldn’t help but wonder. What was it? Why was it there? How long would it last?

It wasn’t that far from him—off to the east, in the mountains, but not far north.

The fire caught, crackling, and he went down to the stream to wash his face and fill his battered coffeepot. When he came back, he frowned at the sky. Was the green thing bigger? Yes, he thought it was bigger. It still didn’t have anything to do with him, though.

Or so he told himself. He made the coffee, savoring the aroma, the heat, the flavor. Was there anything nicer than a hot cup of coffee on a cold morning, only him, the birds, the stream splashing in the distance—and the imagined sound of those fingers of green light shooting out above him.

Blackwall frowned at the thing in the sky. After years of solitude, years of flogging himself mentally over his misdeeds, years of going over and over the events of his past as if he could change things if he just thought about them hard enough, he had finally won through to some measure of … contentment, at least, if not peace or acceptance of himself and of his crimes. The last thing he needed now was some big tear in the sky to remind him of everything he had tried so hard to put behind him.

Maybe if he went further south. He knew most of the wilds of Ferelden by this time; he had tromped over half the country, it felt like, these last ten years and more. During the Blight, he had done his best to fight as many darkspawn as he could, but quietly—rumors reached him that there were still one or two Grey Wardens in the country after the battle of Ostagar, and he had no wish to find himself among them and have to answer any awkward or incriminating questions. Just as he had no wish to be drawn into whatever work would need to be done to fix this hole in the sky. 

No. He shook his head decisively. Once he had finished his coffee, he would pack up his kit and go somewhere to the west, leaving the sky to mend itself.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
It was the cold that roused her. After a lifetime in the Circle, always indoors, always in thick warm robes, Bridget Trevelyan was not at all familiar with being cold; and what she had experienced of it since the Circle fell, she didn’t like.

This was a particularly bone-deep cold. As she came slowly to wakefulness she became aware that it came from a stone floor she was kneeling on. Her eyes opened, blinking as they adjusted to the dimness of the room, and she lifted her arms, only then realizing that her hands were locked to a metal bar. 

There was a strange itching tingling sensation in the palm of her left hand, and she dearly wished she could scratch it. Then it spread, the itching and tingling becoming burning, paralyzing pain radiating out from her hand, and a green glow filled the room.

She cried out, clenching her fist around the green thing as the pain intensified and then ebbed away. Bridget slumped on the ground, shivering and terrified. Where was she? Who was holding her, and what had they done to her hand?

Reaching for her magic, she found it ready and waiting for her, but it wouldn’t do her much good in her current situation. The Ostwick Circle had been a peaceful place, and the Templars had firmly encouraged the mages to focus on theory and healing in their magic. Bridget could whip up a mean healing potion, and she could quote chapter and verse on the properties of various herbs … but none of that got her out of these shackles.

She cast her mind back, trying to plumb the shadows of her memory for anything that would tell her where she was and how she’d gotten here. 

The Conclave, she remembered that, sitting in the back row between her friends Franko and Drea. The three of them had escaped the fall of the Ostwick Circle together, thanks to the intervention of Bridget’s brother Malachy, Bann of Ostwick, and after some time recuperating with Malachy’s family, had been … well, the best word for it was gifted to the Chantry. They had been tributes, Bridget thought. She wasn’t bitter about it for herself, but she had argued with Malachy about Drea and Franko’s fates.

She tried as best she could to reach inside her jacket and see if her locket still hung around her neck. If they had taken that, she’d … what would she do? She was powerless. Just as she had been in the face of Malachy’s determination, and that of his wife Deirdre, that she should be sent far away from their home, far away from Declan. Their son. Her son, adopted by her childless brother and his wife as their heir. Declan who had her very own brassy golden curls, whose little face was Mykal’s and her own, who had looked at her with no fear and a great deal of curiosity.

A tear rolled down her cheek. Bridget couldn’t blame Deirdre for wanting her gone. If she had stayed, she wouldn’t have been able to hide the truth. Declan would have read it in her face, or enough of it to disturb the careful plan they had made together so long ago. It was the best she could have hoped for for her son—he was being raised by her family, she knew how he fared and what he was doing, she knew he was well cared for. None of that would have been true if the Chantry had taken him, she reminded herself. And so it was far better for all of them that she was nowhere near him. Still … leaving him behind had created an emptiness inside her even greater than the one she’d felt when she gave him to Malachy in the first place.

A door opened, jarring Bridget from her memories, and two women came in. “Up,” one of them said harshly.

Bridget tried to rise, but with her hands shackled, it was nearly impossible to get her balance. Impatiently, the woman grabbed the bar holding Bridget’s hands and hauled her to her feet.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you.”

“I … don’t know who you are?” 

The woman raised a hand as if to strike her, and Bridget shrank back as best she could.

A gloved hand caught the woman’s wrist, and a softer voice said, “Cassandra, stop.”

“Why should I, Leliana? She killed the Divine!”

There was a deep grief in Cassandra’s voice that told Bridget what she said was the truth. “The Divine is dead?”

“Do not pretend you do not know!”

Bridget shook her head, trying to remember the Conclave. She’d gotten up, she remembered, going to find a privy, and left the main chamber, but then … “Everything’s a blur,” she whispered. She looked up at the woman. “My friends?”

“Everyone who was at the Conclave is dead. Everyone but you.”

“No. No!”

“It is the truth.” The woman with the softer voice, Leliana, stepped in front of Bridget. Her eyes were soft and wide and blue and even appeared to hold some sympathy. “I am sorry about your friends.”

Cassandra, the angry one, made a noise of disgust and stalked off into a dark corner of the cell, as if to collect herself.

“Tell me what you remember.”

“Not very much. I was sitting in the meeting, and I had to … well …”

“You must be joking. You claim that you are here because you had to piss?” Cassandra spat a word that was unmistakably a curse, even though Bridget didn’t understand the language.

“I’m sorry.” Bridget thought of Drea, who had been her mentor in the Circle for so many years; of Franko, with his charming smile and keen wit. “You’re certain? Everyone?”

“Unless you had accomplices,” Cassandra said.

“I didn’t do anything! I was … running? And something, something was chasing me. I remember someone stretching out her hand to me …”

“Her hand?” Leliana asked. “A woman?”

“Yes? I’m not certain.” 

The other two women exchanged a look, and Cassandra sighed in obvious reluctance and exasperation. “Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will take her to the rift.”

“The rift? What rift?” Bridget asked.

“Cassandra will explain. Won’t you, Cassandra?” Leliana’s tone was a warning.

“Yes. I will explain very carefully and without harming the prisoner,” Cassandra said, as if reciting a particularly annoying lesson.

“Very well.” Leliana left the room, and Bridget and Cassandra stood looking at one another.

“Was that … the Leliana?” Bridget ventured after a moment.

“What of it? Shall I call her back so that you can get her to sign your shackles?”

“I’m sorry,” Bridget said. “About the Divine, and … and everyone. Truly. They were my friends, too.” 

“So you say.” Some of the hostility had left Cassandra’s voice, however. She unlocked Bridget’s hands from the shackles and bound them in front of her with rope, instead. “Come.”

Bridget followed her outside, blinking in the sudden light. As her eyes adjusted, she could see that the light was somehow … greenish. Like the light that had come from her hand. It was itching more fiercely now, almost painfully, as Bridget lifted her eyes to see a great tear in the sky. She could feel magical energy pulsing from it, pulling at her, and could almost hear the whispers of demons in her mind. She recoiled from it, and Cassandra nodded, staring up at it herself.

“We call it ‘the Breach’. It grows larger with each passing hour. Can you feel the demons through it?”

There was no censure in the voice, just curiosity.

“Yes,” Bridget whispered. Her short time in the world outside the Circle had taught her that no one trusted a mage, and she didn’t want to draw attention to herself here in the outdoors, not knowing who might be able to hear her.

“This is not the only such rift,” Cassandra told her. “Just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave.” Her grey eyes rested on Bridget thoughtfully.

“What kind of explosion tears holes in the sky?”

“I imagined you could tell me that.”

Bridget shook her head. “I would never do anything like that. Please, you must believe me. You can write to my brother, Malachy Trevelyan, Bann of Ostwick. He can tell you.”

“You are the sister of the Bann of Ostwick? Indeed.” Cassandra chuckled. “Quite the illustrious prisoner.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

As she spoke, a stab of green light shot from the rent in the sky, and Bridget could feel it, the spike of pain from her hand sending her to her knees, screaming. After a moment, it subsided, but the itching sensation was stronger now than it had been before.

Cassandra knelt next to her, her voice kind in spite of herself. “Each time the Breach expands, your mark spreads … and it is killing you.”

Bridget turned her hand over, seeing a miniature version of the Breach in the middle of her palm, almost as if she herself was a rift in the Fade. The energy from the mark was like nothing she had ever experienced before, and nothing in all her knowledge, all her hours spent in the Circle library, told her how to fix it, or make it go away.

“So … there’s nothing we can do?”

Cassandra looked at her for a long moment, her grey eyes studying Bridget’s face. At last she said, “There is a chance that your mark could be used to close the Breach, if you are willing to try.”

“What have I got to lose?”

“An excellent point.” Cassandra got to her feet. She grabbed the back of Bridget’s jacket and hauled her up as well and they made their way through a wintry, makeshift camp. People scuttled away from them on all sides, and Bridget could feel the sharp cold of their stares as surely as she could the biting wind that whistled through her clothes. 

“They have decided your guilt,” Cassandra said. “They need it. The people of Haven mourn our Most Holy, Divine Justinia.” She glanced at Bridget. “Did you see her?”

Divine Justinia. Something about that teased at her mind … but no. Bridget shook her head. She didn’t think so.

Cassandra sighed, genuine grief crossing her scarred face. “The Conclave was our last chance for peace between mages and Templars. Most Holy brought their leaders together; now they are dead. We lash out, like the sky.” Cassandra turned to Bridget, her hands on her shoulders, her face twisted with grief and fear. “We must think beyond ourselves now, as she did. Until the Breach is sealed.” She looked deeply into Bridget’s eyes for a long moment, searching for answers that Bridget didn’t have, before untying her hands. “There will be a trial; I can promise no more.”

“Come,” Cassandra said. “It is not far.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“You will see when we get there.”

There was little Bridget could answer to that remark, or the cold finality of Cassandra’s tone. There were so many questions running through her head, she couldn’t have picked which to start with, so for the moment it seemed easiest just to follow Cassandra and hope the Breach didn’t widen any further and assume she would have answers later.

The second of those was a vain hope; in the middle of their walk up into the mountains, the Breach expanded and the pain that ran up from Bridget’s palm and swirled around her body was like nothing she had ever experienced before. She fell to the ground, screaming and clutching her hand.

Cassandra, her face concerned and her hands gentle, came back to help her up, and she let Bridget lean on her shoulder for a few steps until she could walk on her own again.

Looking up at the tear in the sky, Bridget couldn’t believe that anyone could have survived it, much less that she herself had done so. “How did I even escape? Does anyone know?”

There was a pause, as if Cassandra had to swallow back a sharp response, before she said, slowly, “They said … that you stepped out of a rift, and fell unconscious. Those who were there at the time say that a woman was in the rift behind you, but it closed before she could escape. No one knows who she was.” She looked at Bridget curiously. “Some are saying she was Andraste herself.”

“Why would Andraste bother with me?”

“My question precisely.” As they walked, Cassandra surveyed the snowy lands before them. “Everything farther in the valley was laid waste, including the Temple of the Sacred Ashes.”

“Cassandra.” They both stopped walking, looking at one another. “I didn’t do this. Whatever happened, I could never have—I would never have done anything like this.”

“You say that, but you do not truly know what actions of yours may have led to this. Is it possible that when everyone else perished, you alone stepped from a rift, unscathed, bearing a mark that is connected to that … thing,” she pointed to the Breach, “and yet you were uninvolved? It would take someone of more … faith? generosity? naivete? than I possess to believe such a tale.” Her face softened, just a touch. “But I believe you when you say you have no knowledge of what occurred, and I will … endeavor to have faith until you prove yourself unworthy of it. I can promise no more.”

“It’s enough. Thank you.” 

Bridget followed Cassandra along the icy path, her thin slippers hardly suited for walking like this. Her robes were equally thin, and she shivered in the chilly air.

“It is not much farther,” Cassandra said without turning around.

There was every chance that Cassandra’s “not much farther” was miles away from what Bridget would consider not much farther, but there seemed little point in complaining about it. Bridget was not at all used to walking, or the outdoors, or physical activity in general.

They were crossing a frozen river, or a pond, or a lake—Bridget couldn’t quite tell which. Her experiences out of doors had been limited since she was taken to the Circle at nine years old and as a result, she didn’t judge distances particularly well.

Ahead of her, she heard the scrape of metal on metal and looked up to see that Cassandra had drawn her sword. A shade hovered just in front of Cassandra, and Bridget shrank back in horror. The Breach was letting demons through, then. Cassandra had said so, but Bridget hadn’t truly believed it until just now. 

Another shade rose, groaning, from the ice in front of Bridget, and she backed away from it. She considered screaming for Cassandra, but Cassandra had her hands full with the first shade. Bridget threw a hand up in front of her face, flexing the fingers, trying to think of something, anything she could do. Without entirely meaning to, she formed a ball of energy in her fingers, and the energy shot forth, spearing through the shade. It sank back for a moment, then came at her again, and Bridget screamed.

Cassandra came hurrying back, slicing through the shade with her sword. “Why didn’t you fight back?” she asked impatiently.

“I—I didn’t know how,” Bridget admitted. “We weren’t taught any fighting skills; the Templars wouldn’t have wanted us to be able to fight back against them. I know people who found such spells, and practiced them in secret, but I was never one of them. I hit it with a ball of light I used to use to read in the dormitory at night.” It wasn’t entirely true—she had known how to fight during her Harrowing, but even then she had done so poorly, barely surviving … and that had been well over a decade ago. 

Tapping her foot, Cassandra stared at her. “It had not occurred to me that you would not know how to defend yourself. I will try to stay closer as we move through, but there may be more demons ahead. There probably are. If we run into them again, just hit them with that light spell as fast as you can. Perhaps that will keep them away from you long enough for me to finish them off.”

Bridget nodded, keeping to herself the irony that the very woman who had all but accused her of mass murder was now suggesting she use magic in combat. 

Cassandra nodded, still studying her. “I will not forget that you agreed to come willingly. You should know, I am a Seeker of the Chantry. I know how to handle mages, should you decide to …” She stopped, frowning. “Never mind. Let’s just go.”

They kept moving up icy, slippery mountain paths, and more demons appeared in their way. When there were only one or two, Cassandra took them out. To Bridget, her movements were almost too fast to keep track of, each thrust of the sword and tilt of the shield appearing to be timed for maximum damage to her opponent.

Once they ran into a group of four. Cassandra engaged them all immediately, and Bridget hid behind a pile of rocks. She peeked out and found Cassandra slowly being edged back, a scorch mark on one arm from a fiery rage demon. Bridget swallowed hard against her fear. She put out her hand, pretending to herself that it didn’t tremble, and the ball of energy formed. Then she snatched her hand back. What if she hit Cassandra with it? Then she would be alone here in the wilderness.

But Cassandra couldn’t stand against all four. She was falling further back, and something was wrong with her shield arm. Bridget put her hand up again, and this time, it didn’t tremble as she shot the bolt of energy at the nearest demon.

She nearly shrieked and ran when it turned toward her, but Cassandra needed help, and that knowledge helped her keep her spot and send more energy stabbing forth.

At last the demons were gone, and Bridget hurried out from behind the rocks to where Cassandra stood rubbing her injured shield arm.

Cassandra glared at her. “Next time, do not leave it so long.”

“I’m sorry. I was … I was frightened. I’ve been in the Circle since I was a small child—they didn’t teach me how—“ She let the words trail off, since the truth was she hadn’t been taught anything that was useful out here in the world. Bridget reached for Cassandra’s arm, placing her hands gently on it. She could feel the torn ligaments beneath her fingers, and she reached out with her mind, pulling them back together and knitting them strong again.

When it was done, Cassandra flexed her arm. “Well, perhaps you are not entirely useless.” Her voice was gruff, but her eyes were kind, and Bridget realized with some pleasure that this, at least, she could use outside the Circle. Perhaps there was a place for her in the world after all.


	2. Hothouse Flower

Blackwall tramped through the woods, careful to avoid stepping on any branches that might crack beneath his feet. There were hunters in the woods, and the occasional apostate, and he had no wish to run into either. Or any category of human, for that matter. 

There were times when he wished there was magic that could turn him into a bear. He would happily live as a bear the rest of his life, fishing and hunting grubs and sleeping through the winter … it sounded like a pretty good life. Of course, bears didn’t read Orlesian poetry, he thought, remembering the several well-thumbed volumes wrapped in oiled skins in the bottom of his knapsack. He probably shouldn’t, either—the poetry brought back memories of a life he had long ago given up any right to—but it also brought back the sweeter and more precious memories that went back even further. His mother had read poetry to him, her voice rising and falling over the lines so fluidly. How long ago was that now? Forty years? It was growing harder for him to remember how much time had passed. One day was so much like another out here. The seasons passed, but even those had a reassuring sameness, a pattern to follow. Truth be told, he was far from certain he knew what year it was.

The only thing he was absolutely certain of was the line between Orlais and Ferelden—those mountains that towered so forbiddingly over the eastern landscape. He made sure to stay far from those; not even a toe of his would ever enter Orlais again, if he had anything to say about it.

The green thing was still in the sky, he noticed, his eyes turning again toward the mountains to study the tear. And it was definitely bigger. Why wasn’t anyone doing anything about it?

A sudden and utterly irrational fear gripped him. What if no one was fixing the sky because there was no one left to do so? He had occasionally entertained the notion of being the last man left in Thedas, but it wasn’t really something he liked to contemplate. Not that he thought that green thing had killed people from as far away as the Free Marches, his long-lost home—after all, he was much closer than that and had thus far suffered no ill effects—but it could have killed whoever was near it, and those crackling green fingers of light that kept stabbing from it could be keeping anyone from coming near to fix it.

Well, either way, Blackwall told himself, it wasn’t his problem. Definitely not. Once upon a time, he had been a man who fought things, who did his part for the rest of the world, but he had thrown all that part of him away, and it had been gone too long for him to find it again.

Resolutely, he turned his back on the green thing again.  
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
As they continued up the icy path, Bridget could hear the sound of fighting ahead of them, including a peculiar ratchet and click she didn’t think she had ever heard before. 

Cassandra shouted, “Hurry!” and quickened her pace.

Bridget did so, as well, but she was more used to indoors than out and she slipped on the ice and fell heavily to her knees. She got up and kept moving at a more careful pace, with the result that the demons were dead by the time she reached the top. A bald elf came toward her, grabbing her left hand without preamble or permission and dragging her by it toward a rift in the sky. Bridget could feel a tug and a tingle as the magic in the mark on her hand connected with the Fade through the rift, and instinctively she closed her hand. As she did so, the rift began to seal itself off. She opened and closed her hand a couple of times, the rift sealing itself a bit more each time until it was gone.

The relief when the rift was gone was blissful; her hand felt almost normal again. She cradled it against her chest.

“What did you do?” she asked the elf.

“It was the mark,” he said. “Whatever magic opened the breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake—and it seems I was correct.”

“Does that mean I could also close the Breach?”

“Possibly.” He looked at Bridget speculatively. “It seems you may well hold the key to our salvation.”

“Good to know,” said a voice behind Bridget, and she turned to see a dwarf standing there. She had seen no dwarves in her life, and she couldn’t help staring at this one, who looked not at all like what she would have expected. She would have imagined a heavy beard and a forbidding manner, but this dwarf was clean-shaven but for some blond stubble, and he had an open, friendly look on his rather handsome face that made Bridget feel at ease for the first time since she’d awakened in the cell. He went on, “Here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.” He gave Cassandra a grin, which she returned with a scowl. Then he turned his gaze on Bridget, his smile softening as he did so. “Varric Tethras. Rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong.”

“Varric Tethras?” Bridget echoed. “From Kirkwall?”

“Once upon a time. I see you’ve heard of me.”

“ _The Tale of the Champion_ ,” she said. “And others. I may have some questions, Serah Tethras, if you don’t mind.”

Cassandra groaned in disgust, closing her eyes and shaking her head.

Varric ignored her. “I love to answer questions, but only if you call me Varric.”

She smiled. “Thank you. And I am Bridget. Bridget Trevelyan.”

He gave her a courtly bow.

“Are you with the Chantry now, Varric? I confess, I would be surprised to hear that, given … your book …” She trailed off, remembering too late that Cassandra was unquestionably with the Chantry, and her own rather precarious position.

Behind her, the elf chuckled. “That can’t have been a serious question.”

“Technically,” Varric said, “I’m a prisoner. Just like you.”

Cassandra shifted restlessly, clearly impatient with the small talk. “I brought you here to tell your story to the Divine,” she snapped, glaring at both Varric and Bridget as if she wasn’t certain which one to be most angry with. “Clearly that is no longer necessary. You can leave us at your earliest convenience.”

“Considering current events, it’s lucky for you that this is the most interesting tale in town at the moment.” He eyed Bridget speculatively. “Any objection to being put in a book?”

“One of yours?”

“Naturally.”

“None at all. I’d be flattered.” 

“You may reconsider that stance, in time,” said the elf, still standing behind her. His eyes appeared to still be on Bridget’s hand, and she closed it into a fist.

“Aww, Chuckles, I’m sure we’re going to be besties sooner or later,” Varric said. “There’s a lot of fighting ahead of us, plenty of time to develop a fabulous camaraderie.”

“Absolutely not.” Cassandra took a step toward Varric, glowering down at him. “Your help is appreciated, but …”

“Have you been in the valley lately, Seeker?” he asked. “Your soldiers aren’t in control anymore. You need me.”

Cassandra growled and stalked away from all of them. Bridget wondered why such a charming dwarf seemed to irritate her so very much.

The elf nodded at Bridget, at last dragging his eyes away from the mark on her hand. “My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions. I am pleased to see you still live.”

“He means, ‘I hope you’re grateful that I kept that mark from killing you as you slept,’” Varric put in.

“You are a healer?” Bridget looked at him more closely, now recognizing the staff on his back. “An apostate?” She had never met one of those, either. “And you know about the mark?”

“Technically, we are all now apostates,” Solas said.

“That takes some getting used to.” Bridget thought longingly of her warm, comfortable bed and her bulging bookcases. “I … was always taught that a mage belonged in the Circle.”

“Perhaps now you will have a chance to broaden your horizons. My own travels have allowed me to learn much of the Fade, far beyond the experience of any Circle mage. Or so I imagine. Perhaps at some point we can compare notes.” Solas gave her a small nod. “I came here to offer what help I can give with the Breach. If it is not closed, we are all doomed.”

“Whatever I can do in that effort, I am willing to try,” Bridget assured him.

Solas turned to Cassandra. “The magic involved here is unlike any I have seen. Your prisoner may be a mage, but I find it difficult to imagine that she, or any mage, could wield such power.”

Cassandra looked them both over warily, but without anger. “Understood,” she said. “Now we must get to the forward camp, and quickly. There is little time to lose.”

She and Solas moved off together, and Varric fell into step next to Bridget. “Well, Bianca’s excited,” he said.

“Bianca?”

He gestured to a complicated contraption he carried in a sling over his shoulder. “My crossbow. She thinks it’s just like old times.”

“You mean with the Champion?”

Varric nodded. Bridget considered asking more, but decided to save her breath for the climb.

They moved on, Cassandra forging ahead on the icy paths. There had been widespread destruction, so they ended up cross-country, wading through the snow and climbing over things. Bridget felt hopelessly clumsy; Solas and Cassandra had to help her over most of the obstacles in her path as she tried to keep up with them, and she was breathing heavily, her breath puffing in the chill air. At last she fell back. Solas was light on his feet, barely even making a dent in the snow, and Cassandra had ample determination to pull her through.

“Welcome to the slow pack,” Varric said to her. He struggled in the snow and over the obstacles as well, due to his height. He sighed, looking down at his clothes, which didn’t look particularly suited to the cold weather. “I think it’s a grand conspiracy to ruin my boots.”

“I’m really not used to … being outside.” 

“Neither am I.”

“Oh, are you from Orzammar?” she asked him in surprise.

Varric chuckled. “No, born and raised in Kirkwall. But I spent most of my time there in the tavern, when Hawke wasn’t dragging me all over.”

“That puts you one up on me. The last person who dragged me anywhere was the Templar who took me to the Circle.”

“Sounds like it wasn’t your idea.”

“I was nine years old. My parents spoke to me about it kindly, and made it clear they supported my going, but that didn’t make me any happier about leaving home.” She glanced at the dwarf. “But don’t get the impression I spent my time there wishing to be anywhere else. The Circle became home. I miss it.”

“I get you. We do what we must, but that doesn’t make it what we want.”

She shrugged. “Or sometimes what we must becomes everything we know.”

“That, too.”

They walked in silence for a bit, keeping Solas and Cassandra in sight. Occasionally Cassandra would turn and frown at them both for having fallen so far behind.

On a hill, Bridget stubbed her toe against something, falling to her hands and knees. She stayed there for a moment, panting, so tired she wasn’t sure she could get up again. Her hair was falling in her face, the braid long ago having fallen down her back from its usual careful pinning and now beginning to unravel. Her hand with the mark on it was pulsing painfully, she had a stitch in her side, and she could barely feel her toes anymore, her feet were so cold.

Varric put a hand on her back. “I’d like to say it’s going to be over soon, but that would be a lie, and I only do that for money. Or entertainment. But if you’ve got anything left, you’re going to have to dig for it. I get the sense from Chuckles that we can’t deal with the Breach without you.”

“Chuckles?”

“The elf.”

“Does he like that nickname?”

Varric laughed heartily. “He tolerates it. I nickname everyone. It’s my thing.” He stepped back and studied her. “You, now … you remind me of an old friend from Kirkwall. I called her Daisy, so … I think I’ll call you Sunflower.”

“Sunflower? Hothouse flower, more like,” Bridget grumbled, but the moment’s rest had helped, and she was able to get to her feet and start putting one foot in front of the other again.

“Nah, ‘hothouse flower’ is too long to say, and doesn’t half do you justice. Besides, give you a couple weeks of this and you’ll be trekking with the best of us.”

“A couple of weeks?” Bridget stared at him in dismay. 

“At least.” He looked at her kindly, but without pity. “It’s not like you have a cushy Circle to go back to. What else were you going to do with your time?”

“Stay warm?”

He laughed again. “That’s the spirit. Keep that sense of humor, you’ll make it, no problem.”

Bridget wasn’t so sure, but there was no time to respond to him, because up ahead Cassandra gave a shout and drew her sword. Solas lifted his staff and she could see magic flash from it, rippling in the air.

“Hope you’re ready, Sunflower,” Varric said. He drew the crossbow from his back and took aim, advancing toward Solas’s position. Cassandra had already run forward.

A wave of weariness washed over Bridget. Or was it fear? Either way, she wondered if the other three couldn’t just manage without her. She didn’t know anything about fighting.

But a little voice in her head was chastising her shrilly for letting her companions face something she was afraid to tackle. She had always held her own in her classes, always taken pride in being a good student. This was like no lesson she had ever learned before, but it was a lesson, and as such, could she really stand back and make excuses for herself?

She jogged ahead, trying to call to mind what it had felt like to create that ball of energy before. Taking a place between the elf and the dwarf, she lifted her hand and sent one of those balls at the shade Cassandra was fighting.

Solas glanced at her in what looked to be surprise, but Cassandra was still surrounded, and despite the clear competence of Solas’s magic and Varric’s crossbow, Bridget was too embarrassed to sit back and just let them all take care of it, so she formed another ball of energy and shot it at another shade. She didn’t seem to be doing much good, but she wasn’t hurting.

At last between the four of them all the shades had been taken care of. After making certain that Cassandra was all right, Solas turned to look at Bridget. “I take it combat magic was not your specialty.”

“It was … no one’s specialty, at least not in my Circle. We are—we were,” she amended, thinking again of Drea, lost in the Conclave, “scholars. Our Templars would not have looked favorably on anyone who wanted to try combat magic.”

Solas nodded. “I see. Would you be amenable to my giving you a few lessons, when time permits? There are likely to be more battles in your future—you should be able to protect yourself.”

“Thank you, I would appreciate that,” Bridget said with relief. 

“There you go, Sunflower,” Varric said encouragingly. “We’ll get you looked after.” He shouldered the crossbow, smirking at Cassandra as she rejoined them. “Nice scrap, eh, Seeker?”

“What are you all dawdling here for?” Cassandra snapped. “We have to hurry; they will be waiting for us.”

“Of course.” Solas glanced at Bridget. “Will you be able to keep up?”

“I’ll try. I’m sorry if I’m holding you all back.”

Cassandra looked as though she’d like to snap again, but a warning look from Solas made her take a breath and rethink. “It’s fine. We will go as quickly as we can, but there is little point in expending all our energy; we don’t know what we will face before there is time to rest again.” She sheathed her sword and turned her face back to the path.

Varric nudged Bridget in the ribs. “Quite the motivational speaker, isn’t she?”

Bridget nodded, trudging after Cassandra, trying to ignore the weariness weighing down her limbs. 

At last they reached the forward camp, finding Leliana arguing with a man in Chantry robes, whom Cassandra introduced as Chancellor Roderick. For a moment, it seemed touch and go whether the Chancellor would prevail and drag Bridget off to be tried for treason in Val Royeaux, but between them Leliana and Cassandra stood against him, and he backed down in the face of that formidable combination. Bridget imagined that most people probably would.

In the midst of the argument, the Breach expanded again, Bridget crying out with the pain as the mark in her hand flashed and flared. Everyone moved back away from her; everyone except Solas, who knelt next to her, taking the marked hand in his and looking at it with concern. 

“We must get her to the Breach,” he said to Cassandra. “It is our only chance, and hers.”

Chancellor Roderick snorted, but he didn’t argue any longer.

“Very well,” Cassandra said. “We should go quickly.”

“Solas,” Bridget whispered. “I don’t … I don’t know if I can.”

“You must,” he said. “We will get you to the Breach, and give you all the support we can.”

“Thank you, Solas.”

“I wish I had time to teach you some combat magic,” he said quietly, “but at this moment, I think it would be unwise.”

With the weight of Roderick’s glare on her, Bridget had to agree. She could only imagine what his reaction would be to the two of them murmuring and gesturing together—an elven apostate and an ex-Circle mage whom he suspected of treason and mass murder. “Unwise,” she echoed. “Yes. But I thank you for the thought.”

They got started sooner than Bridget had expected they would be ready to; the brief rest had only made her feet start hurting. She couldn’t remember the last time she had spent as much time on her feet as she had today. It was quite possible she never had.

But she kept up as best she could; they were all counting on her, she knew that, and she also knew that she hardly seemed competent to them. Her skills, the skills of the library and the classroom and the sickbed, were not the ones these people valued or understood, and certainly not the right ones for this circumstance. And while she was of an age with them, a life spent sheltered and indoors had left her skin pale and unmarked; Bridget had been told many times that she looked far younger than she was. Given all that, and the mysterious mark she couldn’t explain, it was only natural that they should distrust her. She was half-tempted to distrust herself. 

So she pushed herself far beyond what she would have imagined she was capable of, hurrying up the hill behind Varric, taking as much care as she could not to slip in the thin shoes.

There was a crater, vast and blasted and rock-strewn, where the Temple of Sacred Ashes had been. Bodies were frozen in their final moments of agony. Bridget felt tears coming to her eyes as she looked around her. Was Franko one of these bodies? Or Drea? There had been others at the Conclave whom she had met and enjoyed speaking to, and they were gone, as well.

A man approached them, a tall blond man with the unmistakable bearing of a Templar but without the armor. He said to Cassandra, “You made it.”

“Barely.” Cassandra glanced at Bridget, who looked down her feet. “The prisoner is holding up well, however.”

“Is she?” The Templar looked at her coolly. “I hope they’re right about you; we lost a lot of people getting you here.”

More people lost, in addition to the ones here. Was it really all her fault? Had she done this, caused this, somehow? The Templar was looking at her as though he was certain it was her doing. “I hope they’re right about me, too,” she whispered.

“We’ll see soon enough, won’t we?”

Maybe she was imagining it, but there seemed to be a hint of a sneer in his voice, and it angered her. “Do you have any idea what it’s like for me to be standing here? Having everyone accuse me of causing this? Some of these people were my friends!”

He didn’t blink, unmoved by her outburst. “Some of them were mine, too.” He passed by her, nearly hitting her with his shoulder, and said to Cassandra, “The way to the inner Temple should be clear. Leliana will try to meet you there.”

“Then we’d best move quickly.”

Quickly indeed. Bridget could feel demons gathering near them, hear their voices in her inner ear. Was there another rift ahead of them, as well, in addition to the Breach? She could almost feel it, a strange pulsing in her hand.

Cassandra looked at her, seeming to understand some of what Bridget was thinking. “Give us time, Commander,” she said to the Templar.

“Maker watch over you,” he said, favoring Bridget with a final suspicious glance. “For all our sakes.”

And then he was gone, stopping to help an injured soldier to the comparative safety of a stand of rocks. So there was kindness in there after all, Bridget thought. Perhaps he wasn’t all bad. Unlike some other mages she’d known, she had never had much trouble with the Templars; she was a studious, quiet, relatively inoffensive mage and had had the good luck to be surrounded by Templars who were of the more disciplined kind. The Knight-Commander of the Ostwick Circle, Timeon, had been a man who believed in doing his duty to the strictest letter of its dictates, and the rest of them had followed his example. 

But there was no time for further reflection. Cassandra was shouting, “Come on!” and they were on the move.

Around a corner was the small rift. Bridget was almost glad of it, for the chance to practice closing a rift again before she had to deal with the massive Breach. The others kept the demons off her, mostly, so that she was free to concentrate. Form the link between the rift and her hand, feel the strangeness of the power flowing through her, use her hand and her being to find the edges of the rift and pull them closed. It was not unlike healing a wound, and Bridget knew how to do that, and do it well.

She sighed as the rift sealed itself, the link closing, blessed relief in her arm and through her body for a moment. Some mages might have enjoyed this power, but it felt … alien. It wasn’t hers, it didn’t belong to her or in her. 

“Well done,” Solas said in his quiet way. “You give me hope that this can work on the Breach.”

Bridget smiled at him. “Your hope gives me hope.”

“And both of your hopes give me … yeah, mostly I’m just scared shitless.” Varric grinned at her. “But I’ve been that before and come out of it in one piece, and so has Bianca. We’re with you, Sunflower.”

Cassandra glared at all three of them. “Less talking! Move faster.”

“Succinctly put, Seeker.” 

They made their way deeper into the blasted wasteland that used to be the Temple. Spikes of some kind of red rock began to be interspersed with the chunks of building stone and the rest of the detritus.

The red rock hummed, drawing Bridget toward it, curious. She reached out to touch it, but Varric grabbed her hand, dragging her away. “That’s red lyrium!” 

Red lyrium? Bridget had heard something about that, murmurs, really, but no details.

“Seeker!” Varric called.

Cassandra said, impatiently, “I see it, Varric.”

“But what’s it doing here?”

Solas was studying it, too, his head cocked to the side. “Magic could have drawn on lyrium beneath the temple, corrupted it …”

Varric shook Bridget’s hand, which he was still holding. “Whatever happened to bring it here, it’s evil. Don’t touch it!”

She looked at it again, still hearing the hum. It felt … odd. Regular lyrium had a hum, too, but it was brighter, clearer. This was low, primal, like a growl deep in the throat, almost like a lover. Bridget shook herself. She didn’t know why Varric was reacting this way, what past he had with red lyrium, but based on the way it felt to stand near it, she was willing to go along with his assertion that it was evil. “Come on, then. Let’s close that Breach.”

“Now you’re talking,” he said, giving the red lyrium another agitated look.

There was more of it scattered throughout the ruins, more thickly the closer they got to the Breach. Could whatever had caused the Breach also be creating red lyrium? Bridget wasn’t sure lyrium worked like that, but then, she didn’t really know how lyrium was created, so she supposed anything was possible.

Suddenly a voice echoed around them. Deep. Calm. Emotionless. Precise. “Now is the hour of our victory,” it said. “Bring forth the sacrifice.” 

“What are we hearing?” Cassandra asked shakily. The desolation, the bodies, the knowledge of what had occurred here and to whom all seemed to be getting to her. She gripped her sword’s hilt tightly, looking ready to draw it on anything that moved.

Solas looked around, appearing far less disturbed. “At a guess,” he said, “the person who created the Breach.”

That it clearly was not Bridget’s voice went unnoted, but of course, she had known she hadn’t done it all along, and neither Varric or Solas had ever appeared to seriously believe her guilty. Cassandra had been softening, but Bridget couldn’t imagine the other woman bending enough to admit she might have jumped to conclusions. After all, the conclusions hadn’t exactly been unreasonable, Bridget thought, flexing her left hand. The mark was burning more as they approached the Breach.

“Well, it’s creepy,” Varric said, holding his crossbow in front of him as the voice spoke again.

“Keep the sacrifice still,” it said.

Then another voice, bouncing off the rocks. “Someone help me!”

Cassandra stopped in her tracks, looking around her in distress. “That is Divine Justinia’s voice! What is this? What is happening?” 

The Divine’s voice cried for help again, desperation in it. And then Bridget heard her own voice, asking “What’s going on here?” She hadn’t spoken out loud, she was certain of it. But everyone was staring at her.

“That was your voice,” Cassandra said, stunned. “Most Holy called out to you. But—why?”

“I don’t know,” Bridget whispered. The mark in her hand was crackling and flashing, just as the Breach was. “I don’t remember. I wish I did.”

Her voice echoed above them again: “What’s going on here?” and then the Divine’s, a scream of pain and urgency. “Run while you can! Warn them!” The first voice, then, the detached one, cool and collected. “We have an intruder. Kill her. Now.”

There was no clue in that voice as to the identity of its owner, or of those to whom it issued that deadly command with such certainty.

And then there was silence. They all stood, stunned, everyone’s eyes on Bridget, until Cassandra came to her side. “You were there! The Divine … is she? Is this … is it true? What are we hearing?”

“I don’t know! I don’t. I’m sorry!” Bridget could feel her throat swelling as panicked tears welled in her eyes. Her head ached with the effort of remembering, the black space in her mind cold and hard as the voice had been. 

“The Fade bleeds into this place,” Solas said. He alone seemed unshaken by what they had all heard. His eyes were on the Breach. He turned to Bridget. “This rift is not sealed, but it is closed. With the mark, you should be able to open it, and then seal it again properly.”

“There are demons on the other side,” she said. “I can feel them.”

“I know. You will have to be as swift as you can.”

“Stand ready!” Cassandra shouted to the soldiers around them. 

Bridget reached up into the sky, flexing her hand open, over and over, the energy flowing between her hand and the rift, opening the tear in the sky. She could feel the demons clustering around it, trying to get through. As soon as it was open she tried to begin closing it as quickly as she could, but something ripped the connection between herself and the rift apart, sending her flying backward, and she watched from the ground, her muscles aching, as a pride demon stepped through, screaming.

Immediately, the soldiers were on it, but it was large and they were, comparatively, small. It could scatter three of them with a single blow. But the soldiers were determined, and they were angry, and at last they had a chance of fighting back and closing the terrifying rip in the sky once and for all, and every time the demon had them down, they got up and attacked it again.

A group of them, including Cassandra and Varric, surrounded Bridget, forming a defensive wall around her and keeping the demons that had come through the Breach after the pride demon off her.

It seemed to go on forever, the soldiers hacking away at the pride demon and Bridget in the midst of her cordon of protective fighters trying and failing to reestablish her link with the Breach. At last, there was a loud cheer. The pride demon was down, the soldiers surrounding it, hacking away until it was no longer a threat.

“Now!” Cassandra shouted. “Do it!”

With a glance at Solas, who nodded at her in confirmation, Bridget raised her hand again, feeling the tug and the pull, sharp against her open palm, as her mark made contact with the Breach. It was so big, the power in it so strong, that it took all she could to stand up against it, squeezing her hand closed over and over again, drawing the edges together so slowly it seemed to take an age, her hand tiring. She braced her left elbow with her right hand, grimacing in pain as she kept going. And then there was a blinding flash of light that seemed to stab its way down her arm and through her body, and blackness closed around her.


	3. Live Your Story

Blackwall stood still in the middle of a stand of trees. Ahead of him there was a small campfire, and around it several unhappy and discontented individuals; apostates, if he gathered correctly from the complaining. Mages so rarely were equipped for the real world, especially the ones he had been running into recently. There were more and more of them, and he disliked the idea that his haven of refuge, this abandoned wilderness, was being taken over by these spoiled children who seemed to feel that life had dealt them a harsh blow.

A life of leisure, to learn and to study, a life where every need was taken care of, where the biggest problem seemed to be that one’s guards were mean to you … well, all right, it sounded like jail, but Blackwall had often thought that perhaps jail wouldn’t be so bad. He knew well enough that if he were ever caught, there would be no jail for him; he would hang. And maybe that was what made jail, and therefore the Circle of Magi, sound as though it couldn’t be all bad.

Nonetheless, apostates were touchy; they saw a Templar in every cracked branch and every sigh of wind. Blackwall had no intention of moving again until all of these were asleep. If they were smart, they’d set a guard, but he’d have bet a pretty hefty pile of coin that this bunch wasn’t that smart. Not that he had a hefty pile of coin or anyone to bet it with, but the point stood, and so did he.

Occasionally a group like this was good for some decent gossip, but this crew were too unhappy with the cold and the wind and the scant rations they’d been able to scrounge to give a thought to anything beyond their fireside. None of them even had anything to say about the green tear in the sky, which was what Blackwall had truly been hoping to hear about when he stopped to listen to them.

And then the Templars stepped out of the trees. Blackwall didn’t see what happened, but from the way the mages reeled, he assumed the Templars had performed a smite. They began attacking, the mages nearly helpless, and without thinking, Blackwall broke cover, drawing his own sword. 

It was touch and go for a few minutes, the Templars strong and well-trained, but he hadn’t been fighting on his own for more than a decade for nothing; he was well used to larger groups and knew how to work their numbers to his advantage. 

When the Templars were all dead or vanquished, two mages were dead, but the other three were staring at Blackwall in wonder. He was cursing himself for having gotten involved; their fight wasn’t his. What had he been thinking? But the mages were helpless, and he’d had enough of helpless creatures dying.

“You can’t just sit here and wait for someone to attack you,” he said impatiently. “Learn to hide better, or learn to fight better. Or both.”

“Will you teach us?” one of the mages asked.

Blackwall shook his head heavily. “No.” He sighed, surrendering to the inevitable. “I have other places to be.” And he took to the woods again, this time in the direction of the break in the sky.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The Breach was halted, but not closed. Bridget had failed. But strangely, her failure seemed to have endeared her to those in the camp at Haven … and caused her to become a holy figure, the Herald of Andraste, to people across Thedas. Pilgrims climbed the icy, muddy paths every day.

When Chancellor Roderick had continued to insist that Bridget was a suspect in the explosion of the Conclave, Cassandra, of all people, had come to her defense, formally breaking with the Chantry and declaring an Inquisition.

Of course, it wasn’t quite as easy as simply announcing an Inquisition. Over the next few days, Cassandra and Leliana were busy writing letters and preparing the camp and talking over the many objections they heard, and Bridget worked along with them. At least these were things Bridget could help with; she’d spent years talking apprentices and Templars into seeing things from her point of view. Here it was easier; the people already wanted to believe what she said. She wouldn’t have chosen the appellation of Herald of Andraste for herself, but she was willing to use the belief to garner support for the Inquisition.

She also spent time getting to know the people in the camp and the roles they filled. Threnn in requisitions was surly and unhelpful, but Harritt, the armorer, was cheerful and friendly. He had made her a new set of leather armor to specifications given him by Leliana, promising that his gear would see her through anything the world could throw at her. Bridget found it an impressive guarantee. 

In the corner of the camp, a small hut held familiar scents and an atmosphere Bridget had been in many times—that of a person who cared most of all about the research they were doing and not at all about neatness or about what anyone else might think. She couldn’t help thinking of Garcelle, who had been the senior alchemist in her Circle, and she smiled.

The balding, bearded man who worked in the hut glared at her. “What are you smiling at?” Then, with only slightly less hostility, “Oh, it’s you. Back from the dead. Again.”

Bridget frowned. “Have we met?”

“Who do you think was hounded into patching you up after you staggered out of Maker-knows-where?”

“Then I owe you my thanks.”

He appeared somewhat mollified. “You can pay me back by fixing the world.”

“I’ll do my best.” Bridget smiled, holding her hand out. “I’m Bridget.”

“Adan. I’m in charge of keeping our little band here stocked with potions and elixirs.”

“On top of being a healer? That’s a lot of work.”

He frowned. “I’m not a healer. Just the closest thing we have. You want something to burst into flame on contact with the air? Done. Gladly. You want someone patched back together? Find someone who knows how and stop wasting my time and talents.”

Bridget snorted a laugh. “You ought to have been the Herald of Andraste.” She looked at the mark on her hand. “Other than this mark, my only talents are in healing … at least, out in the world.”

Adan looked her over, a faint sympathy in his eyes. “No doubt you’ll learn, and learn fast. I doubt Seeker Cassandra is going to leave you to work healing magics, not when you could be out in front closing rifts and impressing people with your mark.”

“You don’t think I’m sent by Andraste herself?” It was a refreshing change of pace.

“Do you?”

“No.”

“Well, then.” He turned back to a bubbling potion, clearly ending the interview.

Outside the hut, Bridget ran into Solas.

“Is it time for a lesson in magic?” she asked him.

He looked around. Few people came to this corner of camp; it seemed a safe enough place to openly practice magic. “Very well.” He led her behind the hut. “Would you say you feel an affinity for any particular discipline? Ice, fire, earth?”

Bridget shrugged helplessly. “I’m not certain. Not ice, that I can say for sure.” She shivered, and Solas smiled.

“Since light was what came most naturally to you, perhaps we can try lightning.”

“Thank you for doing this, Solas.”

“It is my pleasure. The least I can do for the Chosen of Andraste, a blessed hero sent to save us all.” He frowned at her. “You need a staff.”

“I’ve never owned a staff before. And I don’t feel like much of a hero.”

“How you feel is ultimately irrelevant. A hero is required; you carry the mark on your hand that will seal the rifts, therefore a hero you must become.” He studied her for a moment. “In the absence of a staff, I will show you the hand motions for a simple lightning strike; if you speak to Seggrit, he will no doubt sell you a staff at a tremendous profit to himself, or if you ask Harritt, I imagine he can make you one.”

“Where were you before this, Solas? You’re not from a Circle.”

He smiled. “No. I am … a wanderer, if you will. I seek out ancient ruins and long-forgotten battlefields; I dream there, seeking the hopes and sorrows of lost civilizations.” He turned to look at her speculatively. “I have seen hosts of spirit armies reenact the bloody past in ancient wars. Every great war has its heroes; I admit to being curious what kind you will be.”

“I hope to avoid being known as an incompetent one.”

“A worthy goal.” For some time they focused on the lightning spell, until Bridget thought she had a reasonable grasp of how to call the lightning down and how to control where it struck.

“Keep practicing,” Solas told her. “There is more I can teach you, if … Yes,” he said decisively, “I will stay, at least until the Breach has been closed.”

“I didn’t know that was in doubt.”

“I am an apostate surrounded by Chantry forces in the middle of a mage rebellion.”

“As am I,” Bridget pointed out. “And I have to stay; or at least, I feel that I have to. I would ask no one to stay against their will, but I would certainly appreciate having someone at my side who understands what it’s like.”

He nodded. “Then I will.” 

“Thank you.”

The following morning, Bridget was summoned early to attend a meeting in the Chantry with Cassandra and Leliana. 

She reached for the armor Harritt had given her yesterday, a pair of leather pants and a long leather vest over a thick, warm wool jacket, all in a deep grey, with gloves and boots in a slightly darker color. It was remarkably light and comfortable and easy to move in—much more so than the robes she’d been wearing for most of her life, which had typically been scratchy and cumbersome.

Bridget paused to study herself in the mirror. It seemed such a long time since she had looked at herself, she was almost surprised to see the same face there: the broad forehead and wide cheekbones, the narrow nose and full-lipped mouth, the blue eyes under their arched brows. Her hair was twisted tightly into its complex braid and pinned up securely; what she wouldn’t give for a long hot bath and the chance to wash it thoroughly. It gleamed in the light, dull and heavy with the built-up oils. It was a dark gold, like old brass, right now, but would lighten a bit once she washed it. When she was a child it had been practically white, but it was getting darker every year.

When she’d gone to the estate in Ostwick after the circle fell, her brother Malachy said he would never have recognized her. Of course, it had been years before that since she’d seen him, and he had been shocked and a little frightened of her sudden appearance at his door. Any thought she’d had of going home to stay had been erased by that reaction. It was what she should have expected, but it had broken her heart to be sent away so soon, with only a brief scrap of time to spend with Declan. 

She shook herself. No time for self-pity; Cassandra was waiting for her, and there was more to do today than worry about her dirty hair.

Outside, the wind bit into her, but Harritt’s good warm leather provided far more of a barrier than what she’d been wearing. It still wasn’t exactly pleasant, but it was better. 

Haven was bustling, filled with even more people than yesterday, unless Bridget entirely missed her guess. Including something she hadn’t seen in quite some time—a woman in full Templar regalia.

Bridget stopped to speak with her. “I can’t help but notice your armor,” she began, striving for a friendly tone. All too often mages and Templars jumped at each other’s throats out of self-defense, and whatever of friendly relations her influence could buy, that was what she wanted. “I haven’t seen a Templar since I arrived in Haven; not one in armor, at any rate.”

“It’s all I have,” said the woman. Her tone was neither hostile nor friendly, which was really somewhat better than Bridget had expected. 

“I wondered if you were planning to return to the Order.”

The woman shook her head. “It’s not what it once was. Where once we protected all people from the dangers of magic, now we posture and grab at power. That’s not what I joined up for. One day, I hope the Circles are again sanctuaries where mages can practice their craft.”

“I hope for that, too. Ostwick was my home, not my prison, the Templars my guides and not my tormentors.” Bridget held out a hand. “Bridget.”

The Templar hesitated for a moment before clasping Bridget’s hand. “Lysette. I … I remember you, from the Conclave.”

“You were there?” 

“I was at the edges, not important enough to be part of the talks. I—“ She blushed a little. “I remember the man you were with.”

“Oh, you must mean Franko.” Bridget smiled. “He was quite the charmer.”

“Was? I am sorry,” Lysette said. 

Bridget nodded her acknowledgement of the sentiment. “How did you come to Haven?”

“Your forces were the first on the scene when the Tower went up; they rescued those few of us still alive.” She met Bridget’s eyes squarely. “My life is a debt I intend to repay, Herald, however I can.”

“Please, call me Bridget. And I’m glad you’re here, Lysette.”

With a smile for the Templar, Bridget moved along toward the Chantry.

Cassandra met her outside the building. “Harritt does good work,” she said, looking Bridget’s new armor over critically.

“It’s warmer, I’ll give it that.”

They walked through the chantry together. The mark on Bridget’s hand itched and tingled, as it often did, and she turned her hand over, flexing it in an attempt to make it stop.

“Does it trouble you?”Cassandra asked.

Bridget frowned, closing her hand so she couldn’t see it. “If it wasn’t enough to close the Breach, what use is it?”

“You did everything we asked of you,” Cassandra said, sympathy soft in her voice.

“And it still didn’t work,” Bridget snapped.

“What’s important is that the Breach is now stable, as is your mark. You’ve given us time, and Solas believes that if we can give the mark more power, a second attempt might succeed.”

“’Might’?” Bridget echoed. “What a ringing endorsement. Where are we going to get that kind of power? And couldn’t it just make things worse, channeling so much power into something we don’t entirely understand?”

Cassandra chuckled. “And people call me a pessimist.” She opened the door of the room at the end of the Chantry and ushered Bridget through.

Everyone in the room turned to stare at her. Bridget could feel her fair skin redden under their scrutiny. 

“You’ve met Commander Cullen. He’ll be leading the Inquisition’s forces.” 

Bridget locked eyes with the cold Templar she had met before the assault on the Breach. Today his eyes were warmer, and he even smiled a little. “It was only for a moment on the field. I’m pleased you survived.”

“Cullen, is it? From … Kirkwall?”

A spasm of pain crossed his handsome face. “Most recently, yes. I’m from Ferelden originally, though. I seem to recall you were from the Ostwick Circle? I heard good things.”

“Yes. I liked it there. I miss it.”

“A rare statement.”

Bridget nodded. “So I gather.” She didn’t ask about his experiences; the whole world had heard about the Kirkwall Circle, and the Ferelden Circle where he had been stationed before. No one deserved to have those experiences taken lightly; instantly she forgave him the coldness of their first meeting.

Cassandra gestured to the other new face in the room, a dark-haired woman in very shiny, fancy clothing. “This is Lady Josephine Montilyet, our Ambassador and chief diplomat.”

“You have your work cut out for you, my lady,” Bridget observed.

“Yes, I suppose I do.” Josephine nodded her head in greeting. “It is a pleasure to meet you at last.”

“And of course, you remember Sister Leliana.”

Leliana said, “My position here involves a certain—“

“She is our spymaster.”

“Tactfully put, Cassandra.”

Cassandra smiled. Then she cleared her throat, standing at attention. “Now that introductions are out of the way—I was telling the Herald—“

“Bridget.”

“What?”

“Please call me Bridget. I don’t feel much like a Herald of Andraste, and I don’t want such formality. Not here.” Not when everyone in this room had more experiences than Bridget had ever imagined.

“Very well. I was telling Bridget that more power is required to close the Breach for good, power to be channeled through her mark.”

Leliana said, “We must approach the rebel mages for help.”

“I still disagree. The Templars could serve just as well,” Cullen said.

“We need power, Commander. Enough magic poured into that mark—“

“Might destroy us all,” Cullen interrupted. “Templars could suppress the Breach, weaken it.”

Leliana snapped, “That is pure speculation.”

“I was a Templar. I know what they’re capable of.”

Josephine spoke up, cutting through the argument. “Unfortunately, neither group will even speak to us as of yet. They do not trust us; they have no reason to. And the Chantry has denounced the Inquisition—especially you,” she added, turning to Bridget.

“They still think I’m guilty.”

Josephine nodded. “Yes, that, and … the fact that you, a mage, are being referred to as the Herald of Andraste. That frightens the Chantry. The remaining clerics have declared the title blasphemy, and the Inquisition heretics for harboring you.”

Bridget sighed. “That wasn’t my idea.”

Laughing a little, Leliana said, “That is exactly what Una Theirin said when they started calling her the Hero of Ferelden.”

“And according to Varric, Gideon Hawke said something similar, in slightly more colorful terms, when Knight-Commander Meredith named him the Champion of Kirkwall.” Cullen smiled. “None of us choose our destiny, Herald—er, Bridget. This appears to be yours.”

“Either way,” Josephine continued, “the Chantry’s censure limits our options. Approaching either the mages or the Templars for assistance is currently out of the question.”

“No matter what the Chantry may say, the people are desperate for a sign of hope,” Leliana said. “For some, you are that sign.”

Josephine sighed. “For others, you are a symbol of everything that has gone wrong.”

“So if I wasn’t with the Inquisition …” Bridget hesitated. Maybe she should just bow out now, wait until they needed the mark for the Breach again.

But Cullen was shaking his head. “They would have censured the Inquisition anyway. You are merely the excuse they’ve chosen.”

“And you not being here is not an option.” Cassandra’s voice was firm, certain.

“I think I have a place to start rebuilding your—our—reputation,” Leliana said. “There is a Chantry cleric by the name of Mother Giselle working near Redcliffe, in the Fereldan Hinterlands. She has asked to speak with you.”

“With me? Isn’t she afraid I’ll turn her into a toad?”

Much to Bridget’s relief, there was a general chuckle. Cullen as a Templar and Cassandra as a Seeker were familiar with mages; Leliana had worked with some during the Blight. Josephine was an unknown quantity. Bridget needed to be assured that her magic, and her control of it, weren’t going to be constantly in question in this room. The laughter in response to her comment was heartening.

Still smiling, Leliana said, “I understand Mother Giselle is a reasonable sort. Perhaps she wishes to decide what she thinks of you, and of the Inquisition, for herself.”

“As long as you’re there, you should look for any opportunity you can to expand our influence and improve our reputation,” Cullen said.

“As long as I’m there?” Bridget said, surprised. “Are none of you coming with me?”

“I’m afraid not. There is much to do here to get the Inquisition off to a good start,” Josephine said. 

“I will accompany you.” Cassandra gave Bridget a reassuring look.

“Thank you.”

“Just let me know when you are ready to depart.” She frowned thoughtfully. “It might be wise to bring Solas along, in case we run into any trouble.”

“And Varric,” Bridget added. She wanted the only person who made her feel like herself at her side if she was going to be meeting and talking to a lot of people who wanted to see her only as a symbol.

Cassandra sighed. “If you insist.”

The meeting broke up then, Bridget walking out of the room with Josephine. “Trevelyan,” Josephine mused. “Daughter of Bann Carrick Trevelyan of Ostwick?”

“Yes, that was my father. My brother Malachy is Bann now; Father passed away several years ago.”

“Of course. I knew that; I had merely forgotten. I am sorry for your loss.”

Bridget winced. “I hadn’t seen him in quite a long time. It’s—difficult to mourn what you don't remember having.”

“Yes, I can see how that would be.”

“If you don’t mind my asking … these seem like strange surroundings for an Antivan noble. What brought you to the Inquisition?”

“To put it briefly, Leliana. We have been acquainted for quite some time, and she can be very persuasive when she has determined to put her mind to something.” Josephine shrugged lightly, a hint of a smile on her lips. “Fortunately for her, being the Inquisition’s diplomat has become as interesting as she promised it would.”

“The Inquisition is lucky to have you, Lady Montilyet.”

“Josephine, please. And thank you. Those are kind words. Let us hope they are also true.” She hesitated for a moment. “There was something I wanted to ask you.”

“Of course.”

“Are you in touch with your family?”

Bridget thought of Malachy, and Declan. “Yes,” she answered, hoping her trepidation wasn’t evident in her voice.

“I was hoping to dispatch a courier asking House Trevelyan to openly declare their support for the Inquisition.”

Bridget blinked. “Oh.” Malachy might like that; as long as she was with the Inquisition, she couldn’t come back to the estate. “I could write and ask my brother if he would agree to that. He might consider the request more carefully if it comes from me.” 

“Wonderful.” Josephine beamed. “Val Royeaux has noted your lineage. It gives the Inquisition some … legitimacy, although not as much as we’d hoped.”

“Because I’m a mage?”

“As you say. It is unfortunate, but …” She gave an eloquent shrug, and then a small chuckle. “Not to mention that you are from Ostwick. Orlesian nobles consider the Free Marches somewhat … quaint.”

Bridget grinned. “I know what the nobles of the Free Marches would do if an Orlesian called them quaint to their faces.”

“Which is why no Orlesian would dare.” They laughed together. “I wondered … are the quarters to your liking? I confess, I have never been inside a Circle …”

“Oh. No need for concern. My quarters are fine. Not quite the same as the Circle, but … well, I wouldn’t have thought so before, but I find I rather like the freedom.”

Josephine nodded. “The life of a noble is not the same as the life of a mage, but I find I rather do, too.”

“This can’t be what you’re accustomed to. Surely you’re used to much more opulence than can be found in this camp.”

“One adjusts. Indeed, my duties keep me almost too busy to be aware of my surroundings. And the cold. And … the wildlife. And the lack of civilization for miles around.”

“Be glad you’re here, then, and not trekking through the Hinterlands.”

“Oh, I am,” Josephine assured her fervently, and they laughed again.

They were at the door of Josephine’s office now, the Ambassador’s mind clearly on the work that awaited her inside, so Bridget let her go.

The day was wearing on and she was wearing out; all she wanted was to lie down on her bed and sleep, but she was hungry, as well, so she stopped in the tavern, hoping to be able to relax. It was nice—warm, with soft music and the hum of conversation. But too much of the conversation was about her, and Bridget found herself wolfing down the meal she had hoped to enjoy at a more leisurely pace, just to get out from under the weight of everyone’s eyes on her.

She heard a familiar voice, or as close to one as Haven had, over her shoulder. “Here, Sunflower. You look like you need it.” 

Varric was holding out a flask.

“Oh, I shouldn’t,” she said. “We weren’t allowed to drink in the Circle, except on very rare occasions. I’m afraid I don’t have much of a head for it.” She smiled. “The last thing we need is everyone seeing the Herald of Andraste get plastered.”

“You start thinking like that, you’re going to go off your nut pretty fast,” Varric said. “You can’t weigh down every minute trying to be everything everyone wants from you.” He nudged her with the flask. “One sip won’t hurt you.”

She took it from him, taking a careful swallow of the fine brandy. It warmed her all through, even more than the fire and the food—but not as much as the friendly way he was looking at her, as though he was looking at Bridget Trevelyan, not the prisoner, or the Herald, or the woman with the mark on her hand. It was the first time since the Conclave. She handed the flask back to him, with thanks.

“You holding up all right?” he asked. “I mean, there you were, the most wanted criminal in Thedas, and here you are today part of the armies of the faithful, with a shiny new nickname and a lot of expectations riding on your shoulders. Sounds pretty tiring to me.”

Bridget nodded. “I might be a little tired. To be honest with you, I really don’t have any idea what’s happening. I’m just … going where the winds take me, it feels like.”

“It’s been blustery out,” he agreed. “Probably going to get worse before it gets better.”

“I thought you were trying to cheer me up.”

Varric laughed. “I thought _you_ were trying to cheer _me_ up.” Sobering, he took a drink from the flask. “For days now, we’ve been staring at the Breach, watching demons and Maker-knows-what-all fall out of it. ‘Bad for morale’ would be an understatement.”

“But you stayed. Surely you didn’t have to.”

He looked down at his hands. “Yeah … I like to think I’m as selfish and irresponsible as the next guy, but … Thousands of people died on that mountain; and now there’s a hole in the sky. Last time thousands of people died near me was in Kirkwall, and there was nothing I could do there, not by the time the Chantry— But here, maybe I can help. At least I can try.”

Bridget looked at his bowed head, remembering what she had read about the explosion of the Chantry in Kirkwall. Being that near two such massive explosions—she wouldn’t have blamed him for running. It was odd to be this close to someone who had been there in Kirkwall when it all started; that seemed like the kind of thing that happened to other people, people in books, not real, live people who sat next to her and shared their brandy with her. Of course, then, here she was having survived an equally massive explosion, marked by it in a way she assumed was permanent.

“I’m still not sure if I believe any of this is really happening,” she said.

“You and me both, Sunflower.”

“Varric?”

He glanced at her, his eyebrows raised.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

He smiled. “My pleasure.”

They sat for a while, and then she said again, “Varric?”

“What’s up, Sunflower?”

“What if I can’t do it? If I let the world down and can’t close the Breach?” Bridget stared into the fire, seeing destruction in its flames.

“You’ll do it,” Varric said softly.

“How do you know? You just met me, and I haven’t exactly done a stellar job keeping up.”

“You don’t think so?” He chuckled. “You’re doing fine.”

She looked over at him. “I read your book. You’re used to being surrounded by people who know what they’re doing.”

At that, he laughed outright. “You believe everything you read?”

“No, but …”

“When I first met him, Hawke was as green as you are. A better fighter, I’ll grant you, and he hadn’t been locked up in a Circle, but mostly a scared, skinny kid trying to provide for his family in a place that thought he was all but worthless. Kirkwall wasn’t a great place to be a Fereldan at that time, spilling over with refugees.” 

“So what happened? You took him under your wing?”

Varric smiled at her. “I only gave him a nudge. Circumstances got in his way and he rose up to meet them, like a good hero should. I have the sense that you will, too.” He stood up, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Live your story, Sunflower. The world put you on the page, but you decide what’s written there.”

He left her there in the tavern, staring at the fire, feeling warmer inside and out than she had since she first woke up in that cell with Cassandra shouting at her.

Even the walk to her hut didn’t chill her; she sat down at the table with a quill and a piece of parchment, and began her letter.

_Dear Malachy,_  
You will, I know, be relieved to hear that I survived the Conclave; one of the few to do so. I do not know how I survived. I know only that I was found in the wreckage, with a mysterious green mark on my hand. You may have heard of the Breach, the tear in the sky over southern Ferelden—this mark appears to be connected, but how, or how I got it, no one here is certain.  
I have been taken on with the Inquisition, and we are working to determine what the Breach is and how best to close it. It appears I will be here for some time, which should satisfy everyone’s needs. If you could see your way clear to supporting the Inquisition amongst those you come in contact with, that would go a long way toward making it a success—and thus, keeping me here and busily occupied.   
My heart is there, as you know, but I agree with you that it is in no one’s best interests for my body to be there, as well. I seem to have found a home here. I lost friends in the Conclave, and I mourn them, as I mourn the Divine, although I never had the opportunity to meet her. But I am making friends here, and I feel I have a purpose, which is a new sensation for me, and one I am surprised to find I rather like.  
My love and prayers for your continued well-being and that of your family,  
Bridget

She sealed the letter and set it aside to be mailed tomorrow, and then she blew out the lantern and went to sleep, ready to set out first thing in the morning.


	4. On This Path

“Warden Blackwall, I can’t stay.”

“What’s that, Rhemus?” Blackwall asked. 

The boy was fidgeting, unable to meet Blackwall’s eyes. “I’ve gotta go.”

“But you were so eager to learn, to become a Grey Warden.”

“Yesser, I know that. But … my family … The woods are full of Templars and mages and bandits. I gotta go home.”

“Rhemus.” Blackwall moved toward the boy. “You go home now, untrained, you’ll just get yourself killed. Stay a few more days, let me teach you some things, so you can go home and protect your family to some purpose.”

“Well … if you’re sure …”

“Of course I am.” He clapped the boy on the shoulder. “We’ll resume our drills in a few minutes. Get yourself something to eat; can’t have you falling down in the middle.” He watched as Rhemus went to join the rest of the recruits, wishing he believed his own words. A few more days wasn’t going to make these farm boys into fighters. He would be sending them home to get killed. But he couldn’t keep them; he wasn’t going to make them Wardens. He couldn't have if he'd wanted to. Most of them didn’t really want to be Wardens, anyway—they just wanted to get away from the Hinterlands, flee from the broken green streak in the sky. Not that he could blame them.

Not for the first time, he wondered where in the Void everyone was. The Hinterlands were hardly an asset for Ferelden, he’d be the first to admit that, but they were under siege by the Templars and the mages … and no one was doing anything about it. No army, no Grey Wardens, no one. Had the powers that be in Ferelden and in Thedas in general just decided to leave the Hinterlands to the forces tearing the area apart, or were they too focused on the green sky to care about the people on the ground? 

As far as Blackwall could tell, he was the only person doing anything out here, and the entire area was in chaos. 

Over a simple dinner, thrown together by a tubby recruit who liked to eat his own cooking better than he liked to use a sword, Blackwall heard the word “Inquisition” for the first time, as the boys muttered among themselves. Apparently there was a camp of them, whoever they were, near the Crossroads, the refugee camp that had grown up in the midst of the Hinterlands, and the Inquisition people were at least helping to start straighten out some of the problems of the refugees and trying to hold back the mages and Templars from the refugee camp.

Blackwall decided to go the next day down to the Crossroads to see for himself who these Inquisition people were and what they were about. Not that he intended to be part of it, or even meet anyone involved, but maybe if he could convince himself this Inquisition was going to get something done, he could leave, get back on his own the way he liked it.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The next morning, Bridget was awakened by a soft knock on her door, and she hastily pulled on enough clothing to be decent before going to open it. To her surprise, the Inquisition’s spymaster stood there.

“I apologize if this is too early,” Leliana said. “I wanted to catch you before you left on your expedition.”

“Well, then, you succeeded.”

Leliana smiled. “I forget that not everyone is up with the birds.”

“They kept us on a strict schedule in the Circle; one of the first joys I found in no longer being there was the ability to sleep until I awakened on my own. But I'm sure the Inquisition will require me to put that delight aside. Might as well get used to it now.” She looked at Leliana inquiringly. “Was there something in particular you wanted to talk about?” 

“There is a matter that is rather close to my heart.”

“What is that?”

“The Grey Wardens of Ferelden have vanished.”

“The King and Queen?” Bridget’s eyes widened. Everyone knew about the Fereldan monarchs, the Grey Wardens who had ended the Blight.

“No,” Leliana answered. “The Queen is on a … separate mission, and the King remains in Denerim. But those Wardens who were stationed in Ferelden are gone, no one knows where. More worrisome still—when I first heard the Fereldan Wardens were missing I wrote to those in Orlais … and they have disappeared as well.”

“That's … concerning.”

“To say the least.” Leliana’s voice dropped, even though they were the only two in the room. “Ordinarily it would never have crossed my mind to imagine that they might be … involved in all this, but the timing …”

It did sound bad. “Is there any way to get further information? I assume you’ve written the King?” 

“Yes. He knew nothing more than we do. But two days ago, my agents in the Hinterlands brought me news of a Grey Warden by the name of Blackwall who is running some type of training camp near the Crossroads. If you are going that way, perhaps you can seek him out. Perhaps he will know more than we do.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you. It would set my mind at rest.” 

Leliana took her leave. Bridget finished dressing and left the hut, searching for Cassandra, who had taken on the responsibility of preparing the party for their journey to the Hinterlands. 

They headed down the mountain a few hours later. Bridget blessed Harritt for the warm, sturdy boots that gripped the snow so much better than her slippers had. It was still a long walk, and they didn’t make it to the Hinterlands the first night, so they had to make a camp, Bridget’s first.

She could tell the others were impatient with her, for all that they tried not to be, and she did her best not to be a hindrance. She didn’t know how to put up a tent, but she could collect firewood, which she did cheerfully. They had cold biscuits and dried jerky to eat, and Varric passed around his ever-present flask. It was too cold to sit around the fire for long, so they retired to their tents fairly soon. Cassandra took first watch, and Bridget went to sleep rolled into a blanket on the hard ground, nearly weeping with weariness and cold.

No one called her for a turn on watch, and she slept very poorly, so they were all snappish with each other the next morning. Even the beautiful day and the lovely forests and fields they passed through didn’t improve the mood.

Finally, with a perceptible sigh of relief, they spied the Inquisition camp and made their way up a small hill toward it. Bridget’s muscles were screaming in pain after the long days of unaccustomed exercise, but she gritted her teeth, determined to keep up. 

Cassandra hung back, letting Solas and Varric go on ahead. “You are doing well.”

“Thank you.” 

“As we meet and speak to people, I think you should do the talking.”

Bridget stared at her. “Why me?”

“You are the Herald of Andraste. It is you people will be looking to.”

“But you’re the one who declared the Inquisition. Shouldn’t you be in charge?”

Cassandra smiled. “You may have noticed I am not exactly what you might call a people person. I have been told my manner can be off-putting.”

There was really no good response to that, so Bridget settled for a noncommittal “Oh?”

“Yes. You, on the other hand, seem to have a much more open way about you, a friendliness that will put people at ease.”

“So you won’t mind if people see me as the face of the Inquisition?”

“I won’t; will you?”

Bridget lifted her hand, looking at the mark. “I think that decision passed me by some time ago.”

“You are probably right.”

Ahead of them, Solas and Varric were waiting, and Bridget pushed on ahead, Cassandra just a couple of steps behind her.

A dwarf came forward from the little knot of tents, wearing what Bridget was coming to recognize as the armor of the Inquisition. She wore her reddish hair in an elaborate braid similar to Bridget’s own. She was only the second dwarf Bridget had ever met, and was as dissimilar to what Bridget had always thought female dwarves must be like as Varric was to her previous idea of male dwarves. 

“Welcome to the camp! My name is Lace Harding, and you’re … you’re the Herald of Andraste! I’ve heard the stories; everyone’s heard the stories. We know what you did at the Breach.”

“Please, call me Bridget.” She held out a hand.

Lace Harding took it without hesitation, giving it a firm shake. “Just so you’re prepared—everyone’s a little nervous around mages right now, but you’ll get no back talk in my camp. That’s a promise.”

“Thank you, Lace.” It was an oddly insubstantial name for a woman whose personality had already impressed Bridget as forceful and confident.

Behind her, she heard Varric chuckle. “Harding, huh? Ever been to Hightown, in Kirkwall?”

“No. Why?” There was a faint narrowing of Lace’s green eyes that suggested she already knew where Varric’s comment was going, and wasn’t amused.

Bridget was, rather, but she hid it. 

Varric, not picking up on Lace’s attempt at dampening his humor, kept going. “You’be be Harding in …” He looked around at Cassandra’s slight cough, getting the picture at last. “Never mind.”

“Good.” Harding nodded crisply, turning her back on her fellow dwarf, leaving Varric looking at her speculatively. Bridget had the sense that most people were either charmed by him or openly disgusted, as Cassandra was, and that few people shut him down quite as effectively as Lace just had. 

“What’s the situation here in the Hinterlands?” she asked Lace. 

“We came to secure horses from Redcliffe’s old horsemaster. I grew up here,” she said, looking at the countryside around them, “and people always said that Dennet’s herds were the strongest and fastest this side of the Frostbacks. But with the mage-templar fighting getting worse, we couldn’t get near his farm. Maker only knows if he’s even still alive. We have men at the Crossroads, doing what they can to protect the people, but they’re spread pretty thin.”

“We can help them,” Cassandra said stoutly. Bridget wished she felt as certain.

“Good. Look for Corporal Vale; he’s in charge of the Inquisition forces.”

“Thank you, Lace.”

“Oh, don’t mention it. My pleasure.” Lace smiled, and Bridget gave her an answering smile before turning her steps to the path down the mountain.

At the bottom of the mountain, they came to the refugee camp at the Crossroads. It didn’t look like much of a refuge at the moment; people huddled in tents and buildings while a group of mages and Templars used the Crossroads as a battleground.

Bridget felt rather than saw the look Cassandra gave her; no doubt the Seeker was wondering if Bridget would be able to fight her own people—as well as she fought anything, that is. Bridget gave the other woman a firm look. “Let’s end this.”

“Good.” Cassandra dashed into the fray, and next to Bridget, Solas drew his staff and Varric his crossbow.

The mages and Templars joined common cause when they were both attacked, despite Bridget’s calls to the mages and Cassandra’s to the Templars to step down. Apparently the only thing both sides could agree on was that they didn’t want their fighting interrupted.

Some of the villagers joined in when they saw that someone was on their side, and some Inquisition forces appeared from the other side of the village where they had been tackling another knot of combatants.

Walking amongst the bodies when it was over, Bridget swallowed tears. “How did it ever come to this?” she asked Cassandra. 

“Over too many centuries to count.” The Seeker looked sad, as well. “I believe it was too late to prevent this long before either of us were born.”

Bridget shook her head. “I don’t know if that’s comforting or not.”

“Neither do I.”

A pair of Inquisition soldiers, approached, bowing to Bridget. “Herald.”

“Men. We're looking for ways we can help with the situation here."

“Corporal Vale has all that information, Herald. He’s over by the training grounds.” The soldier hesitated. “May I … Herald, seeing you here in person … well … thank you.”

Bridget blushed. “I’ve done nothing. You men have done all the work.”

He didn’t look convinced, and she smiled at him before moving toward the infirmary. Next to her, Varric muttered, “I think that smile just bought you a slave for life.”

“I’m not in the market for a slave.”

“Then be careful who you smile at.”

She glanced at him, not sure if he was serious or not.

Walking through the camp, Bridget saw a face in the trees on the overhanging bluff. For a moment, her heart beat faster—whoever he was, the man had a dark beard and mustache and she thought perhaps he was Franko. A second glance told her that this man’s beard was bushier and more unkempt than Franko would ever have countenanced, and he was shorter and broader than her friend had been. She wondered who he was and why he was watching the camp, and her. But when she looked again he was gone, and she thought nothing more of him.

Bridget turned to let her gaze roam across the groups of people. She saw one woman alone, bending over a fire on the far edge of the camp. The woman wore mage robes, but she wasn’t with the healers. Crossing to the small fire, Bridget held out her hand. “I’m Bridget Trevelyan. I was in the Circle at Ostwick.”

The woman stood, her eyes widening slightly. “I knew someone who was sent to Ostwick a long time ago. Did you ever meet an elf named Roric?”

Bridget smiled. “I remember Roric. Mischief personified.”

“That would be him. We used to steal cookies from the kitchen when we were children. My name is Ellandra.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Ellandra. I … I couldn’t help but wonder how it is for you, as a mage alone, under the circumstances.” Had it not been for the Breach, Bridget might have been here herself.

“Not as bad as you might think. People mostly keep their distance.”

“And you didn’t—I’m sorry, I need to ask. Why did you never join the rebels?”

Ellandra shook her head. “I couldn’t. I had … friends among the Templars. I will not fight them.”

“I understand.” Bridget had never dallied with the Templars, but she’d had quite a few friends who did. “Will you be all right?”

“I will. I will keep to myself and harm no one,” Ellandra said with determination.

“If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

Their eyes met, an understanding flowing between them, of a life that had not been unhappy that was gone now, and a future that was unknowable and filled with nameless dangers.

Ellandra nodded. “Thank you, Herald.”

Bridget gave her a quick smile, then turned away and headed in the direction of the small group of Inquisition soldiers. Climbing to the rise they stood on, she called ahead, “Is one of you Corporal Vale?”

A soldier detached himself from the group, coming toward them. He looked Bridget up and down. “You’re with the Inquisition?” His eyes settled on the green mark on her hand and widened, and when he spoke again, his voice had lost its skepticism. “The Herald of Andraste?”

“That’s what they’re calling me.” Bridget fought the impulse to close her hand and hide it away against her chest. The mark had to do with the Fade, but she didn’t know where it had come from, which made her uncomfortable bearing it openly. Maybe she needed to start wearing gloves. 

Corporal Vale’s eyes went past her to take in Cassandra, Varric, and Solas. “Thank you all for your help. The mages and Templars are out of control, both of them, and our troops are barely enough to keep them back, much less do anything else to help all these refugees.”

“What would be the most help?” Bridget asked.

“The people are hungry, and there isn’t enough wood or clothing to keep them all warm … and winter is coming. If the war doesn’t kill them, cold and starvation may well.”

“Anything else?”

Vale nodded. “We’ve got some injuries that go beyond battlefield first aid. A real healer would be invaluable, if you can find one.”

Bridget started to suggest that she could do the job, but a warning glance from Cassandra stopped her. She had a bigger task, that of finding a way to close the Breach, and no one else could do that. Bridget wasn’t used to thinking of herself as being important, not in this way.

“What can you tell us about the mages and the Templars in the area?” Cassandra asked.

“The mages are up north, in Redcliffe Village, dug in and taking care of their own. Mostly if we leave them alone they leave us alone, but sometimes a few drift away, and then there are the rogue mages who don’t agree with whatever the Redcliffe ones are all about. Who knew they didn’t all think the same?”

“Yes,” Solas said under his breath, “it’s almost as though they’re people.”

“What’s that?” Vale looked around Bridget, but Solas shook his head, looking forbidding, and Vale didn’t press the issue.

“As for the Templars … they were all called to Val Royeaux not long ago. These ones left here ignored the order and just stayed. I wish to the Maker they’d gone! In some ways they’re worse than the mages, trying to drag folk away, seeing a mage and an abomination in anyone who gets in their path.” Vale shook his head, looking sad. “Every Templar I’ve ever known has wanted to protect the common fok. These men defile their Order’s good name.”

“What about this horsemaster?” she asked. “Do you know where he can be found?”

“Dennet; he lives on a farm to the west. Tough old fellow. Has to be, the way things are these days.”

“So you do not know how he fares,” Cassandra said.

“No, not for sure. Are you going looking for him?” When Bridget nodded, he looked grave. “Take care of yourself, Herald.”

They checked in at the camp above the Crossroads before setting out in search of Horsemaster Dennet. When Lace Harding heard that the plan was to go deep into the Hinterlands, she looked grave, and eventually announced her decision to accompany them. “No one else in your party knows where you’re going, not like I do.”

“Thank you, Lace.”

“Don’t thank me, Herald. Er, Bridget. Not until we get there.”

“I always like a confident guide,” Varric said. 

Lace glared at him. “Do you shoot off that crossbow as well as you shoot off your mouth?”

He smiled at her, and Bridget was struck again with surprise at how handsome he was. She had never imagined dwarves could be quite like Varric. “Those are my two best things.”

“Stick to the sharp one. I’m all the mouthy dwarf one expedition needs.” With that, Lace started off down the mountain, leaving Varric staring after her. He opened his mouth as if to comment, then apparently thought better of it and followed her.

Solas walked next to Bridget. “I am sorry there wasn’t time to procure you a staff before we left Haven,” he said. “Perhaps we can pick one up for you.”

“Is it that useful?”

“Certainly. For magic, but also,” he smiled at her, his eyes twinkling just a bit, “for walking.”

Bridget had to agree with him there. The Hinterlands were full of mountains—or possibly just large hills—and her legs were tired long before anyone else showed signs of flagging.

“You were born and raised in Kirkwall, you said, Varric?” she asked as the dwarf reached a hand out to help her up the last few steps to the top of a hill. “That’s a city-state—surely you didn’t spend your days doing this much walking. But you seem perfectly comfortable.”

He chuckled. “You’ve never met Hawke. He kept us moving. Always busy, that one. In Kirkwall, out of Kirkwall … Boundless energy. And Kirkwall has these stairs that lead between Lowtown and Hightown. Quite the workout.” He looked up ahead, where Lace and Cassandra were talking animatedly. “Besides, I’m not about to fall behind and suffer through any more of the Little Dragon’s glares.”

Bridget smiled. Lace didn’t seem overly fond of her fellow dwarf, that was true enough.

They ran into small pockets of mages and Templars as they went. Bridget was growing more comfortable with snapping into a combat-ready position at a moment’s notice, even if she didn’t possess the sharp ears and keen eyesight required to see the fight coming before it started. 

Her combat skills were improving, as well. After one fight, Solas took her aside while the others were cleaning up the bodies and taught her a way to split the lightning as she called it down so that she could hit more than one person at once with it.

She practiced on the rocks, admiring the way the lightning sparked back and forth. Solas nodded gravely. 

“You learn quickly.”

Bridget smiled. “I was always a good student. My teachers in the Circle never had reason to complain of me.”

Solas tilted his head to the side, studying her as though she was a new species he had encountered. Perhaps she was; maybe he had never met a Circle mage before. He looked down at her hand, the green mark quiet for the moment. “Does it disturb you?”

“I wish I knew what made it.”

“Yes. I agree. While closing the Breach must be our primary goal, I would like also to discover what was used to create it.” Ahead of them, the others were on the move, and they started walking, nodding to Cassandra as she looked questioningly over her shoulder at them. Solas continued, “Any artifact of such power is dangerous—the destruction it caused proves that much.”

“Wouldn’t whatever created the blast also have been destroyed in it?”

Solas shrugged. “You survived. What’s to say that other things might not have survived as well? The artifact that created the Breach is unlike anything seen in this age. I will not believe it destroyed until I see the shattered fragments with my own eyes.” He spoke with determination, his eyes fixed on the horizon ahead, and Bridget frowned.

It was as if he knew what caused the explosion. But how could he? She made a mental note to ask Cassandra about Solas, where he had come from and why he had joined the Inquisition.

“We would do well to try to recover whatever created the Breach,” she agreed mildly, trying to keep her sudden questions from coloring her voice.

“Leliana’s people have scoured the area and found nothing. Whatever the artifact was, it’s no longer there.”

“If it isn’t there, surely it must have been destroyed.”

“Or taken away by whoever was behind the explosion.” Solas was frowning ahead of him.

Bridget furrowed her brow, trying to remember. She should know what had happened; why couldn’t she remember? She had been sent out of the meetings by the head of her contingent, that much she remembered, but … why? What had she done after that? She had accepted that somehow she had survived where all those other people hadn’t, but if only she could remember why …

Ahead of her, Lace stopped, calling back, “Bridget!”

She hurried her steps as best she could, her feet sore from all the walking, and caught up with the dwarf.

“This is Redcliffe Farms.” Lace gestured to the fields filled with plants. Bridget recognized none of them; the only plants she knew were medicinal, and she had been plucking elfroot as she passed it and storing it in her pack. These were crops, and she had never spent any time on farms. Lace pointed at a weathered house at the top of a hill. “That’s Horsemaster Dennet’s house there. This area looks as though it’s seen less fighting than some; I think we can have some hope that he’ll still be there.”

“Let’s find out.” Bridget led the way up, knocking on the door. 

It opened only a crack. “Yes?” said a man’s voice.

“We’re …” Bridget halted. Shouldn’t she let Cassandra speak? But Cassandra was hanging back, as was everyone else. “We’re with the Inquisition. We wanted to ask … we understand you’re a horse trainer of some skill, and …”

The door swung open, and an older man stood frowning at her. “Inquisition, eh? I’m Dennet. I hear you’re trying to bring order back. It’s high time someone did.” He looked her over. “Never thought it’d be a mage, though. Redcliffe’s had more than enough trouble with magic to last it another age or two.”

“I didn’t come to cause trouble. Just to ask about horses.”

“Taking my horses isn’t trouble enough?” He spoke with weariness rather than anger.

“We wouldn’t want to take them! Just …” Did they have the money to buy horses? Bridget looked over her shoulder at Cassandra, who shook her head just the smallest bit. “Just to ask if you would help us.”

Dennet snorted. “I can’t just send a hundred of the finest horses in Ferelden down the road like you’d send a letter. Every bandit between here and Haven would be on them like flies on crap.”

“And there are a lot of bandits between here and Haven,” Lace put in.

Looking down at her, Dennet nodded respectfully. “Lace Harding. Heard you’d joined up with the Inquisition. They treating you well?”

“Very well, Horsemaster. That’s why I brought them.”

“Then, in that case …” He looked at Bridget. “You’ll have mounts once I know they won’t end up as a cold winter’s breakfast.”

An older woman stepped forward, folding her arms. “Benjamin Dennet. You won’t be giving away our horses unless it’s over my dead body. I’ll tell you what you can pay with, Inquisition. Since the Breach appeared, the wolves have gone mad; they come after our men like ravening beasts. They’ve got no fear of man or fire. It’s like darkspawn during the Blight, or when the dead rose to attack us, like they’re possessed. You take care of the wolves, and we’ll talk horses.”

Dennet shrugged. “My wife Elaina. She has a good point. The farmers around here could use that help. I’m not going to bargain with it, though. If you are who I think you are, you’ll offer.”

What could you say to that? Bridget smiled, appreciating how neatly she’d been trapped. “Of course we will. Whatever we can do.”

“Thank you.” Dennet almost smiled. “Meanwhile, you’ll need something better than whatever knock-kneed plow nag they gave you. Go to my daughter Seanna in the stables—I’ve got a purebred Fereldan forder you can have. Take care of him and he’ll take care of you, Inquisition.”

“Oh! Well … thank you,” Bridget stammered, uncertain why she was being singled out for the gift. She hadn’t been on a horse since she was nine years old and wasn’t entirely certain she’d remember how. On the other hand, it might be nice if something other than her feet hurt for a change.

“While you’re at it,” Elaina put in, folding her arms across her chest, “a few watchtowers so our men will know what’s coming wouldn’t be amiss. The Inquisition’s help stretch to that?”

Bridget looked helplessly at Cassandra, who nodded. “I’ll see what I can do. Lace? Do you think you can survey a few good places for watchtowers, let Cullen and Josephine know what’s needed and what it will cost?”

“Of course.”

They said their good-byes to the Dennets and picked up the horse, a fine-looking animal with intelligent eyes. Bridget got a brief riding lesson from Seanna, but chose to lead the horse back, as no one else was mounted. 

She caught up with Cassandra. “That went terribly,” she said, feeling guilty at how easily she had been outbargained. “I didn’t get the horses and promised all sorts of help in the meantime. And then came away with just one horse, for myself. I’m sorry.”

Cassandra snorted. “Do you think I could have done any better? One word out of my mouth and they would have asked for the moon. My accent and delivery all but guarantee that. Varric might have done better, or Lace,” she conceded, “but we cannot trust Varric to speak for the Inquisition—Maker knows what he might say; and Lace already has a task, which she performs admirably.”

They walked along together for a few minutes. Cassandra watched her feet, her silence feeling heavier with every step. At last she said softly, almost to herself, “Did I do the right thing? What I have set in motion here could destroy everything I have revered my entire life. One day they may write about me as a traitor. A madwoman. A fool.” She looked up at Bridget. “And they may be right.”

“What does your faith tell you?”

Cassandra lifted her head and looked at the Breach, hovering there in the sky. “I believe you are innocent. Have I said that to you? I believe you are. I believe there is more going on here than we can see. And I believe no one else cares to do anything about it, caught up in their own squabbles, both petty and not so petty. They will stand in the fire and complain that it is hot and continue to argue while they burn to death.” She shook her head. “But I can only guess what might be the Maker’s will, and try to do what I can.”

“Maybe there’s your answer?” Bridget suggested. “You try to do what you can. Surely that’s better than standing in the fire, complaining or not.” She glanced sideways at the other woman. “You don’t think I’m the Herald of Andraste?”

“I think—I hope—that you were sent to help us. But by whom? That is not mine to decide.” She looked at Bridget steadily. “The Maker’s help takes many forms. Sometimes it is difficult to discern who it truly benefits. Or how.”

“What do we do now?”

“We deal with the Chantry’s panic over you before it can spread and do even more harm. Then we close the Breach.” She looked at the mark on Bridget’s hand. “We are the only ones who can.”

“I hope we can.” Bridget flexed her hand. “This has to be good for something.”

Cassandra watched her for a moment. “It is difficult to be marked by fate,” she observed.

“Yes, it is,” Bridget said with feeling. “Have you given any thought to what the Inquisition will do when the Breach is closed?”

“We find out who is responsible for this chaos, and we end them.” Cassandra said it in a voice like steel, and Bridget remembered that she had been the Right Hand of the Divine. 

“I am sorry. For your loss,” she said.

“And I for yours.” Cassandra walked along for a few more steps before saying softly, “If there are consequences to be paid for what I have done, I will pay them.”

“Cassandra …” Bridget began. “I have no desire to put myself ahead of you. People keep looking to me, and I—“

“They look to you because I look to you. I am not a leader; I am a soldier. A sword. A weapon. The Inquisition needs to be more than that, and under my leadership it would not be. You … I can see that you are not certain how you fit in the world outside the Circle,” she said thoughtfully, “and I believe that as you find your way, you will find the Inquisition’s way.”

“That’s a nice thought. It would be good to think my incompetence has a purpose.”

“You are far from incompetent. Merely inexperienced.” She smiled a little. “My trainers always said, ‘Cassandra, you are too brash. You must think before you act.’ But I never learned to do so, not truly. I see what must be done and I do it, no running around in circles like a dog chasing its tail. But sometimes the circle is the right way around. You, looking for the best foothold, might see that circle where I would not. I misjudged you in the beginning—I thought the answer was before me, clear as day. If I had had my way—“ She broke off abruptly. “Well. Let us all be grateful that I did not.”

“It wasn’t like you had no reason to suspect me. This—“ Bridget held up the mark. “I’m not surprised you all thought I had something to do with it.”

“I was determined to have someone answer for what happened. Anyone.” She frowned. “I must admit, I’m curious. Do you even believe in the Maker?”

“Of course!”

Cassandra seemed surprised by the response. “Despite what the Chantry has done to mages?”

Bridget shrugged. “The Chantry gave me a home and taught me how to use my gifts. In a limited manner, to be sure, but it was an education such as many in the Circle would not have had otherwise. Other mages have greater cause to complain than I, and I don’t forget that, but, for myself … I believe that the Maker exists. Whether the way the Chantry interprets His words today is the way they were meant to be heard is yet to be determined, but that does not make the words wrong, only those who repeat them.”

“Then surely the Maker put us both on this path for a reason,” Cassandra said confidently.

“Surely,” Bridget echoed. “I appreciate having you to walk it with. I … should probably learn to be more of a weapon.”

“That, I think we can teach you.” Cassandra drew her sword. “Let us start on those bandits up ahead.”


	5. A Warden at Your Side

Blackwall made his way through the trees up the hill toward his camp, thinking on what he had seen at the Crossroads. The troops from this new Inquisition fought well. A bit on the green side, but far better trained than his own little group of farmers’ sons. He would have to step up his work there. And the small group of leaders had been interesting. He had overlooked the fancily dressed dwarf and the plain elven apostate; while he appreciated that the Inquisition appeared to have room for all, the women had clearly been in charge.

The one in armor walked like she owned the world; but she deferred to the smaller woman. Blackwall’s eyes had been drawn to the glowing green mark on the small blonde woman’s hand, the same green as the rift in the sky. So this was the woman they were calling ‘the Herald of Andraste’, a term he had heard for the first time while bartering for the supplies his new recruits needed. 

It had been too easy to make the trades; folks were so desperate they’d give away anything they had for a little food or some warm clothes. Despite his best attempts at being a clumsy bargainer, he had still walked away from the trades feeling like he had taken more than he’d paid for.

This was what came of going out into the world, Blackwall thought sourly to himself. You started to pay attention to what other people needed, you started to feel as though perhaps their needs were your responsibility, you started to care about what happened to them. He felt a sudden fierce longing for his days alone in the woods, where only the occasional bear or spider disturbed his solitude.  
It made him feel a little better that the Inquisition was out there trying to help, too, and with a better infrastructure than he could manage … but that Herald of Andraste person was such a little woman. Not short, but slender and pale and with an air of fragility that made him wonder what she had done before she got that mark on her hand. He’d have felt better if the other one, the one with the long strides and the attitude that everything that didn’t get out of her way would be ground under her boot, had been more obviously in charge.

But for the moment, it didn’t matter. He had his recruits, his ‘Grey Wardens’, and it was his job to train them up and send them home ready to defend their lands and their loved ones. And once that was over, maybe the Inquisition would have dealt with the Breach and he could go back to his lonely camps and his dark thoughts.

The ‘conscripts’ were coming along nicely; Blackwall was proud of how hard they had worked. And just in time—the world was starting to encroach on the little camp by the lake he had built. The mages and Templars, and the bandits that hung around the edges of the fighting, looting whatever they could, were working their way into the hills. And a camp of Inquisition soldiers had been built just below the falls. More and more of Blackwall’s boys were being tempted by the shiny uniforms and the reputation the Inquisition was building for getting things done.

One morning, one of his boys who was turning into a pretty good scout came to him. “Warden Blackwall, I think there are some people approaching.”

“What kind of people?”

“Looks like bandits.”

“What makes you think so, lad?”

The boy counted on his fingers. “They’re coming in separately; they’re sneaking their way through the woods; they’re heavily armed; they’ve got packs full of stuff; no uniforms, so they’re not Inquisition.”

Blackwall had to admit, it sounded suspicious. “Go get the others, tell them to be on alert.”

“Yes, ser.” The boy hurried off, Blackwall at his heels.

They gathered together their weaponry, such as it was, and Blackwall began to form them up. “As we’ve learned, men! Weapons at the ready, eyes open. Stay in the line, no gaps! Make sure you’re far enough from the next man to avoid hitting them with your sword, but close enough you can support your comrade if he needs it. And remember how to carry your shields. You’re holding them, not hiding behind them.” There were murmurings from the line, the boys looking at something over his shoulder, and he snapped, “Keep focused.” 

“But ser!”

He turned to follow their looks, only to see a different threat coming toward him: the Inquisition. The dwarf and the elf were there, the dark-haired warrior who walked like she owned the world, and the little blonde woman with the green mark on her hand. She was prettier than he remembered, her skin fair and fine, her hair shining in the sun. And she was coming straight toward him. “Warden Blackwall?”

But there was no time—the bandits were closing in. “Lend a hand or step aside,” he said brusquely, pushing past her. He looked over his shoulder at his men. “Here they come!”

Bridget motioned to her people to get ready for battle. She had been startled to recognize the Grey Warden they were looking for as the bearded man who had been watching her at the Crossroads. Up close, he no longer looked so much like Franko—this man was shorter and more powerfully built, and Franko would have died a thousand deaths rather than be seen with a beard as bushy and unkempt as the Grey Warden's. It suited him, somehow, though, as did the rather dirty coat and battered metal chestpiece he wore.

The bandits were coming, and Bridget readied herself, flexing her hand, ready to call down the lightning. She struck the first bandit, who staggered back, his coat smoking from the strike.

Blackwall didn’t even flinch, closing with the bandit and taking advantage of his distraction to take him down.

The recruits were coming on, encouraged by Cassandra, who waved her sword in the air to rally them, although several skirted Bridget and Solas nervously, not wanting to come too closely into contact with the mages.

It was all over relatively quickly, the bandits dispatched with a minimum of harm to Blackwall’s recruits.

When it was all over, Blackwall called his men together, for the moment ignoring the people from the Inquisition. Whatever they wanted, he would find out soon enough. He had a responsibility to these boys he had brought together, and he would see that through first.

“Good work, conscripts,” he told them gruffly. “This—shouldn’t have happened. Thieves … thieves are made, not born. But that’s under the bridge now.” He pointed at the bodies, now in a neat pile ready to be burnt. “Take back what they stole and go home to your families. You’ve saved yourselves.”

“But … Warden Blackwall … we was to be Grey Wardens!”

“Yes, lad, but right now your families need you a damn sight more than the Wardens do. When the mage rebellion has been put down, the Templars set right again, the tear in the sky mended, you come find me.” It wouldn’t happen, he knew that, but the fiction was comforting for them and for him right at the moment.

The lads filed past him, offering muttered thanks and bewildered glances and not a few suspicious looks at the two mages from the Inquisition. Blackwall stood and watched, determined to be proud of what the boys had achieved rather than to be sad to see them go.

Only when they were gone did he turn back to the pretty little mage from the Inquisition. He had heard about the mark on her hand, but now that he saw it up close, saw the green fire emanating from her palm that matched what stretched across the sky, he found himself wondering if she really had been sent by Andraste. And if so, what an old sinner like him could possibly have to offer any organization that she led.

“Warden Blackwall,” she said.

It struck a chill in him. Where had she heard of him, why had she heard of him? “Why do you know my name? Who are you?”

“My name is Bridget Trevelyan. I’m … an agent of the Inquisition. Have you heard of the Inquisition?”

“Have to be deaf and blind not to, these days. You’ve done good work amongst these people,” he admitted rather grudgingly. “What is it you want with me?”

The dark-haired woman stepped forward. Her impatience would get her in trouble someday, if it hadn’t already. “We are trying to find out why the Wardens disappeared and if it had anything to do with the Divine’s murder.”

Blackwall took a step back, staggered by the implications of what the woman had said. “Maker’s balls. The Wardens and the Divine? That’s …” He remembered the real Blackwall so clearly, the man’s upright honesty and his sense of duty. Wardens involved with the Divine’s death? Nonsense. He looked at the dark-haired woman more closely and breathed a sigh of relief. “No. You’re asking, so you don’t really know. But … you suspect something.”

“We’re … curious,” the mage said. Bridget, she’d said her name was. It suited her somehow. His mother’s name had been Bridget. And how long ago that was. This girl was young, so achingly young.

Blackwall collected his thoughts. “I didn’t know the Wardens had gone missing.” Too late, he realized he should have said ‘the other Wardens’. Were they looking at him suspiciously now? “We do that, don’t we?” he asked them, hoping he wasn’t overcompensating by being too defensive. “The Blight’s over, the job’s done, the Wardens are the first thing forgotten. But one thing I’ll tell you: No Warden killed the Divine. Our purpose isn’t political.”

The dark-haired woman didn’t believe him, but the mage was more open-minded. The elven mage was largely uninterested, and the dwarf was … writing things down? He made Blackwall nervous.

Bridget took a step toward the Grey Warden, hoping to calm him. She hoped Cassandra hadn’t offended him. “I’m not here to accuse. Not yet. All I want is information.” She frowned. “Of all the Wardens in Ferelden and Orlais, our people can only find you. Where are the others?”

“They don’t tell me,” he said softly. There was a pain in his blue eyes that she couldn’t quite identify. “I haven’t seen any Wardens for months. I travel alone, recruiting,” he explained, gesturing at the little camp behind him. He shrugged. “Not much interest since there’s been no Blight, and no need to conscript, but the Wardens can’t afford to fall into disarray. Never know when the next Blight will pop up.”

“Oh, that’s a cheery thought,” Varric muttered.

“But you let your men go without making them Grey Wardens,” Cassandra pointed out.

The Warden turned to her. “Have you seen what it’s like out there?” He flushed. “Of course you have. These men needed to be able to stand against those who threatened their families. I taught them how. Next time, they won’t need me. For now, they don’t need the Wardens, either, but someday they might. Grey Wardens can inspire,” he finished, his eyes far away, “make you better than you think you are.”

Cassandra asked, “Do you know where the other Wardens could have gone?” 

Blackwall shook his head. He hadn’t seen or heard of another Warden, beyond the ones on the throne of Ferelden, since the Blight. “Maybe they’ve gone to our stronghold at Weisshaupt?” he guessed. “That’s far north of here, in the Anderfels.”

The dark-haired woman frowned. “I would think we would have heard, if they had gone there.”

“Leliana can look into it when we get back,” Bridget said to her.

“I wish I knew,” Blackwall offered. “Can’t imagine why they’d all disappear at once, let alone where they’d disappear to.”

The elven mage spoke up for the first time, his eyes uncomfortably keen as they studied Blackwall’s face. “And they wouldn’t have told you?” 

He shrugged, trying hard to look unconcerned. “They probably wouldn’t have known where to find me. I send the recruits to them, that’s how this works. Maybe there’s a new directive, but the runner got lost or something. Hard to say.”

Bridget nodded, disappointed that the mission had been so fruitless. She tried to think of more questions, but this Blackwall seemed to know even less about his fellow Wardens than Leliana had. But it wasn’t hs fault. He had tried his best to answer all their questions. She smiled at him. “Thank you, Warden Blackwall. We’ll leave you be, in that case.”

Blackwall watched as they started to move away, and he knew he couldn’t let it end this way, even as he cursed himself for a fool. What business did he have allying himself with anyone? Or worrying about the Wardens? The last thing he wanted was to run into an actual Warden—worst thing he could do, really, second to going to Orlais. But … he’d watched the little mage fight. She was trying hard, but she didn’t really know how, and she had no guard at all. One blow while the dark-haired woman was distracted, and that would be the end of the Herald of Andraste and any hope of closing that rip in the sky. He went after her, every step taken against his better judgment. “Inquisition … Bridget, did you say? Hold a moment.”

She turned, her blue eyes fixed on his. “Yes?”

He swallowed. This was the stupidest thing he’d done in well over a decade, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself from doing it. “The Divine is dead, and the sky is torn. Events like these, thinking the Wardens are absent is almost as bad as thinking we’re involved. And the Inquisition is doing good work. I would … I would like to help.” Blackwall took a deep breath. “If you’re trying to put things right, maybe you need a Warden at your side to do it. Maybe you need me.”

The mage smiled at him again and damned if he wasn’t hard pressed not to smile back. “Warden Blackwall,” she said, “welcome to the Inquisition.”

They helped him pack up his small amount of belongings and his worn tent and carry them down to the Inquisition camp at the falls just below.

The Inquisition people had business at the Crossroads, so Blackwall went along with them. He hung back with the dwarf, Varric, who was some kind of famous author and clearly nonplussed when Blackwall had never heard of him, and with Bridget, who walked slowly, her eyes on the ground at all times.

“Not used to the outdoors?” he asked her, the third time she had ducked, panicked, when an insect flew too close to her head.

“Not at all. I spent most of my life in the Circle; we had a little greenhouse for herbs to make into potions, but that was as close to the outdoors as we ever got.” 

“Seems a shame to raise children that way.”

She glanced at him. “It probably is.”

“You seem surprised.”

“Most people believe placing mages in the Circles is the right way to go.”

Blackwall chuckled. “I’m not most people. And Wardens fight alongside mages just like anyone else.”

“So you won’t mind fighting at my side?”

He looked at her, and without his meaning to, a teasing smile curved his lips. “I saw you fight before; had to wonder if I was going to need to comb lightning out of my beard.”

Bridget flushed. “I know, I’m not so good at combat magic. I’m getting better, though. Solas has been teaching me, and Vivienne promised to show me some things as well. She’s just joined us; she’s back at camp.”

“I’m sorry. I was only joking. I … it’s been a long time since I spent much time around other people. I’ve probably forgotten how.”

“No, I’m the one who should apologize. I overreacted. I’m … very touchy about all the things I don’t know.”

“You’re still young. No need to apologize for being inexperienced.” 

Her brow furrowed. “How old do you think I am?”

“Twenty-two?” he guessed.

Bridget snorted a laugh. It was typical; but it made her wonder why anyone in their right mind looked to her to make decisions for the Inquisition. They wouldn’t without Cassandra backing her, she was certain. “Try adding a decade.”

Blackwall stared at her, his blue eyes studying her intently until Bridget flushed and looked away.

“Now you know why my incompetence bothers me so much,” she muttered.

“Then fix it.”

“Easier said than done.”

“I can’t imagine there’s much you couldn’t accomplish if you set your mind to it.”

She gave a faint smile. “That’s kind of you to say.”

At his side, the dwarf rolled his eyes. “Maker’s breath. It’s Hawke and Fenris all over again.” And he put on a burst of speed to catch up with Cassandra and Solas ahead, just as Cassandra turned around.

“Rift ahead,” she called.

“I know it,” Bridget said. Her mark had been sizzling hot in her hand for a few minutes now.

“Rift?” Blackwall asked.

“A tear in the Veil, like the Breach, only smaller.” He still looked confused. “The Veil is the barrier between reality and the Fade; when the Veil is thin, or torn, demons can get through more easily.”

“What do you do about it?”

“Watch.”

They hurried to catch up to the others, who were already engaged with several demons. Bridget walked up to the glowing green rip in the sky, holding her hand out to it, palm forward. She closed her hand and opened it, closed and opened it, and something burst, the demons at hand staggering as though stunned. Blackwall came to himself and turned to attack the nearest demon, a fiery being with only a vaguely human shape. 

He had fought the occasional demon in the past ten years, but this was a concentration far beyond anything he had seen before. He lost track of Bridget entirely as he dealt with the fiery demon and then a series of inky black ones. At last, the demons seemed to all be down, and he wiped the back of a gauntlet across his forehead, getting the sweaty hair out of his face.

Bridget still stood in front of the rip, but it was smaller now, and as he watched she seemed to pull it closed, the way a needle pulled a thread. And it was gone. She turned to him, smiling triumphantly.

“A pretty trick,” he said. 

“It didn’t work on the Breach, though.”

“It worked better than we had thought it might,” Solas told her, “and it will again, with the addition of help from the mages.”

“Or the Templars,” Cassandra said pointedly.

“Perhaps.”

Bridget looked at both of them and didn’t offer an opinion. She turned back toward the Crossroads, making her way up a hillock with small steps, as though her feet hurt.

Blackwall kept pace with her. “I take it you would prefer to work with the mages.”

“Yes. But I need to keep my options open … and I don’t know why they’re letting me make the decision anyway.”

“You have the mark on your hand,” he pointed out. “If you don’t feel comfortable working with the Templars, perhaps you can’t use the mark as effectively.”

She looked at him thoughtfully. “I hadn’t thought of it that way before. Maybe that is why they’re leaving this up to me.” She sighed. “I should think more about working with the Templars—but I’m afraid if I do that, we’ll lose the mages’ cooperation entirely, and … I don’t want to fight the mages.”

“Naturally.”

“Is it? Natural? I mean, they’re just people, like those bandits we fought back there. Maybe magic shouldn’t make such a difference.”

“But it does. Nearly everyone has an opinion.”

“Do you?”

He smiled. “Never met a mage I didn’t like.” That he had spent time with few mages in his life was something he didn’t bother to add.

Bridget didn’t return the smile. “Then you must not have gotten to know many, then. Mages are like everyone else—not all of us are nice, or generous, or thoughtful … or competent,” she added with a sigh.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re doing fine.”

“Let’s see if you say that after you’ve been with us for more than a few hours.”

Blackwall followed her, and the others, through the small Crossroads settlement, and in the process discovered that she was, indeed, doing fine. Small children flocked to follow the Inquisition people, although they shied away when Bridget tried to pat them on the head, staring at the glowing mark on her hand in fascination and a little fear.

They stopped in a set of shoddy, patched tents and gave a potion to a weary elf. Bridget insisted on staying to watch as the elf gave the potion to his wife, and wouldn’t leave until she could hear for herself that the woman’s harsh, troubled breathing had eased and become more natural. She left them the recipe for the potion to brew for themselves if needed.

From there, they spoke to an Inquisition soldier about finding caches of supplies he could use to keep the refugees warm and clothed, and gave a hunter a pack full of meat from rams they had slaughtered. Blackwall idly wondered who had butchered the rams—he imagined it had to be Cassandra. The idea of Bridget or Varric butchering a ram was one that had his mustache twitching as he tried to hold back a smile.

The hunter expressed what many had been saying these last weeks—the Inquisition had come from nowhere, but they were the only ones out here trying to help. And that, Blackwall imagined, was where Bridget seemed to come in. It was she who approached the people asking what they needed and how they were. Watching Cassandra watch Bridget, and seeing the approval in the Seeker’s face, convinced Blackwall that the leadership had been chosen far more carefully than Bridget seemed to be giving it credit for.

“Stay here,” Bridget said softly to the others. She took a vial from her pocket as she approached the corner where Enchanter Ellandra huddled by her fire.

“Oh, it’s you,” Ellandra said.

“Yes. I … have news.” She held out the vial. “I believe this is your phylactery.”

Ellandra reached out to take it, closing her hand over the smooth glass. She turned it over in her hand. “Mattrin is dead.”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

They were silent for a moment before Ellandra sighed heavily. “I thought he must have died when he never arrived or sent word.”

“What will you do now?”

“I don’t know.”

“The Inquisition can use your skills.”

Ellandra shook her head. “I have no desire to kill others.”

“Then don’t. Come join us and make potions; train others. Heal them, feed them. Whatever you can choose to put your hand to, that is what needs done.” Bridget looked at the other woman. “From one mage to another—we are all needed.”

Rolling the phylactery between her fingers, Ellandra considered for a minute. Then she nodded. “Yes. I will come to Haven, and I will do what I can. Thank you.”

“Thank you,” Bridget replied. “And … I am sorry about Mattrin.”

“Yes. So am I.”

She left Ellandra still looking at the fire, but there was an air of hope about her that hadn’t been there before.

“What was that about?” Cassandra asked.

“She’s going to join us.”

“That is good to know.”

Bridget sighed wearily. The day had been long, and the shadows of evening were stretching across the Crossroads. “Let’s go back to camp and get some sleep.”

“As you say.”

The soldiers were making a stew in the Inquisition camp. It smelled heavenly to Blackwall, better than his own cooking, which is all he’d had for a very long time. It was nice to share a meal with others, too. Even when he’d been training the recruits, he had eaten separately, wanting them to have a break from the old man at the end of a long day of being shouted at.

Tonight, he was just one of the Inquisition’s people, handed a bowl like anyone else, sopping up the gravy with a piece of bread, drinking from the jug that was passed around.

Bridget ate with them, too, but then she excused herself, slipping off in the direction of the falls, with Cassandra following a few minutes later.

“Bridget?” 

“I’m here.” Bridget paused in the act of disrobing behind a concealing rock. “I couldn’t help it; I saw the falls and, well …” She touched the heavy coil of her hair.

Cassandra chuckled. “I had the same idea. And so did Harding. She told me that if anyone moves in this direction, they’ll have an arrow in a very inconvenient place.”

Bridget left her breastband and smallclothes on, as did Cassandra, but both let their hair fall, and neither made a comment to the other about the impracticality of such long hair in their current line of work. Instead, they chatted idly about soaps and ways to keep the braid tidy and other matters of feminine practicality, and when they were both dry and sitting on a rock near the pool rebraiding their still-damp hair, they felt relaxed as Bridget certainly hadn’t been since well before the Conclave.

Cassandra climbed down from the rock. “I am going to turn in, I think.”

“I’ll come in a bit.” Bridget looked out across the landscape. “I’m enjoying the sunset. Green-tinged though it might be,” she added softly. “I’ll try not to wake you when I come to bed.”

“You needn’t worry,” Cassandra assured her.

Bridget sat in the peaceful gathering dark as the sun set fully, enjoying the moment.

That was where Blackwall found her as he wandered to the stream to rinse out his beard and mustache. One thing that he had managed to retain from his former life was a certain fastidiousness; even in the midst of the wilderness when he hadn’t seen another living soul for weeks, he had combed his hair and cared for his teeth.

She sat silent while he splashed water on his face and combed it through his beard, making room for him on her rock when he was finished. 

In the dim light of the rising moon reflected off the water, she looked younger than ever, and surprisingly beautiful. 

Blackwall reminded himself that while she wasn’t as young as she looked, she was still too young for him, and his past was too dark and stained for any woman, much less one as good and generous as this one. In the open collar of the shirt she wore, something glinted gold. A locket. No doubt she wore it to remember a lover, he told himself. Another reason to keep his mind off any possible futures where he might have a use for the reams of Orlesian love poetry he could still recite from memory.

“It’s a lovely night, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” 

“A person could almost forget what lay ahead of them.” She opened her left hand, looking at the green mark that glowed in the palm. “Almost.”

“You’ll manage.”

“People keep telling me that. If I only had the power of the mages behind me, if I only this, if I only that.” She shrugged. “Most of the time I tell myself they know better than I do. Other times … it’s harder to believe.”

“You look to me like the kind of person that things tend to go right for.”

She turned to look at him, a strange expression on her face. Her marked hand lifted to clutch the locket. “Do I? Looks can be deceiving.” She climbed down from the rock. “Good-night, Blackwall.”

“Good-night,” he muttered to the empty air.


	6. Return to Haven

The return to Haven felt odd to Bridget; her heart lifted just a little as the familiar buildings came into sight. Did that mean she belonged here, she wondered, or was it just because it was someplace she knew? Their time in the Hinterlands had been filled with exploration, every moment something new, someplace new, and for a woman who had spent over two decades looking at the same walls every day, it was a lot to handle. 

In the food tent, where the Inquisition soldiers took their communal meals, Bridget found the nearest empty place. She was tired enough that she just wanted to eat and then go and sleep for a long time, and for once she was grateful that everyone moved aside to leave her in peace. Usually she found this reminder of her perceived holiness somewhat irritating, but tonight the quiet was a nice change.

And then she felt a presence at her shoulder, a man clearing his throat behind her, and she looked up to see Warden Blackwall standing there. “Am I intruding, Your Worship?”

“You are if you’re going to call me that. Bridget, and please sit.”

“Bridget, then.” He took the place next to her, putting his plate down. “You eat well.”

“How long has it been since someone else cooked for you?”

He frowned, putting his knife down while he gazed into space, counting. “Longer than I can say.”

“Would it surprise you if I told you I’ve never cooked for myself?” As so often since she’d come to Haven, she felt incompetent just admitting it.

“No reason why you should have, is there?” He smiled. “It isn’t that hard. Mostly just watching to make sure things don’t burn, and knowing the right things to put together.”

“You make it sound like brewing a potion.” 

“Well, I’ve never brewed a potion, so you have one on me there.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Gradually, Bridget became aware of a tenseness in Blackwall, of the rapid movement of his head as he tried to watch everyone around them. She didn’t realize she had stopped eating to watch him until he chuckled sheepishly.

“Been a long time since I’ve been around so many people.”

“Did you miss it?”

“Can’t say that I did. I like my solitude.”

“Oh.” For some reason Bridget found that answer disappointing. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I chose to join you; I’ll get used to the constant crush of people eventually.” He smiled. “Perhaps I’ll even learn to like it.”

She returned his smile. “Stranger things have happened.” 

Abruptly, he got up, taking his plate, still half full. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I … need some air.”

“Of course.” Bridget watched him go, hoping she hadn’t said anything wrong. But she was too tired to think about it for long. She finished the last few bites on her plate and made her way back to her hut. But she couldn’t sleep, not quite yet. Taking the locket from around her neck, she opened it up and looked for a long time at the little face painted there, the blond curls that rioted about the round cheeks, and the blue eyes, so much like her own, that looked out at her. 

If things were different—if she’d been able to keep her son, to raise him, would he be here in Haven with her? Would he have been at the Conclave? Probably. Sending him to Malachy had saved his life many times over, she told herself. But she still missed him, still closed her eyes and wondered what it would be like to hold that little body tight against her, to feel him slip into sleep in her arms.

Tears seeped out the corners of her closed eyelids, and she drifted off to sleep mourning her lost motherhood. 

The next morning’s War Room meeting was a tense one. With the arrival of Lady Vivienne, the court mage to Empress Celene, had come news that the Templars had entirely abandoned the Chantry, and an urgent message, rather reluctantly delivered by Vivienne, from Grand Enchanter Fiona of the rebel mages, to meet her in Redcliffe. This had sparked another round of the mage/Templar debate the advisors couldn’t seem to settle.

They were at an impasse at the moment, each clinging firmly to their own point of view. 

At last Cassandra sighed, clearly grieved by the Templars’ stance. “Lord Seeker Lucius is not the man I remember. I do not know how we would safely approach them at this juncture.”

“He has taken the Order somewhere,” Leliana said, “but my reports have been … odd. We cannot seem to find out where they have gone.”

Cullen said urgently, “We must look into it. I am certain not everyone in the Order will support the Lord Seeker, whatever his issues may be.”

“The Herald could simply go to meet the mages in Redcliffe as they asked,” Josephine suggested.

“Do you think the mage rebellion is more united than the Templars? It could be ten times worse!” Cullen protested.

This endless back-and-forth was exhausting. Bridget rubbed a hand over her face. “Whatever the decision, you need to make it soon,” she said. “This bickering is getting us nowhere.”

Cassandra nodded. “I agree.”

“The mages may be worth the risk,” Josephine said.

“They are powerful, Ambassador, but more desperate than you realize.”

Try as she might to remain neutral in the discussion, believing as she did that it wasn’t her decision to make, Bridget couldn’t help leaning in the direction of the mages. “After the Divine’s death, they’re probably scrambling for allies.”

Cassandra turned to her. “If some among them are responsible for what happened at the Conclave …”

“We have no reason to assume that.”

“We have no reason not to.” They looked at each other, neither willing to back down. 

“The same could be said about the Templars,” Josephine said.

Bridget was surprised when Cullen agreed. “At any rate, right now I’m not certain we have enough influence to approach the Order safely,” he added.

“I suppose that’s my next task, then.” Bridget sighed. Another expedition, so soon. “I’ll go see if I can improve our image.”

“Excellent.” Cullen nodded at her, and he and Josephine returned to their offices. Cassandra excused herself, as well.

Bridget met with Harritt to go over the weapons and armor she had collected in the Hinterlands and determine how they could best be refit. With a hesitant smile, he selected an item from a rack on the wall and held it out to her. It was a staff—smooth and polished, beautifully carved, and it felt good in her hands as she took it from him.

She thanked him profusely, and carried the staff with her as she made her way back through the camp toward the Chantry. It felt strange to be carrying something that marked her so openly as a mage. Everyone knew she was, of course, but … the staff was clearly attracting attention. Harritt had promised her a harness to carry it with before she left Haven again, and she thought maybe it would be easier if she didn’t actually have it in her hand as she walked around.

In the Chantry, she found Vivienne in the room the Orlesian mage had immediately claimed for her own upon arrival. It was beautifully decorated already, and Vivienne was reclining with a hot cup of tea and a plate of tiny cookies.

“My dear,” she said, looking up with a lovely smile as Bridget entered the room. “I am so glad you came to see me. Hm … what is that?” She got to her feet and came over to inspect the staff.

“Harritt made it for me. I’ve never used a staff before, and I wondered—“

“Of course. You came to just the right place. Follow me.”

Vivienne led her to the basement of the building, a long empty hallway with scattered pieces of broken crockery on the floors. They practiced with the staff, and Vivienne was able to teach Bridget how to use it to control and focus her strikes.

“Where are you from, originally?” Bridget asked.

“Why, from the Circle, my dear. What else matters?”

Bridget shook her head. “That wasn’t my experience. In my Circle, it mattered a great deal where people came from. Those from farther away were … exotic. They generally climbed higher, faster, than those from the Free Marches.”

“Well, that is true. It was much the same in my Circle. Indeed, I was born in Wycome in the Free Marches, which certainly did not harm my standing in Montsimmard when I transferred there from Ostwick.”

“You started in Ostwick?”

“Yes, my dear.” Vivienne smiled at her gently. “I remember you, you know. You had just arrived, so small and scared, with such very big eyes.” She looked Bridget over. “In many ways, you have not changed.”

“No. That’s probably true.” Certainly Bridget still felt small and scared far more often than she would have liked to.

“You found your place in Ostwick, did you not?”

“Yes, eventually.”

“As you will here, my dear.”

“I appreciate your faith in me.” Bridget smiled at the other mage, but Vivienne didn’t return the smile.

Instead, she said, “The sooner you reach that comfort, the better for all of us. The Breach remains, and cannot be allowed to stand much longer.”

“No, I know that.”

“Then you will meet with the mages? Or the Templars?”

Bridget sighed. “I don’t know. Whichever I choose, I need to be sure enough to counter the arguments against it.”

“Yes, I suppose.” Vivienne shook her head. “I do not envy your position.”

“No. I wouldn’t, either.” Bridget gave her fellow mage a weary smile and took her leave.

As she left the Chantry, she was approached by a young man in shiny armor. “Excuse me?”

“Yes?”

“I have a message for the Inquisition, but I’m having a hard time getting anyone to talk to me.”

She raised her eyebrows, curious. While there might be complaints about the Inquisition, lack of someone to talk to didn’t seem likely to be among them. Was it possible he had simply been waiting for her? “I’ll take your message, if you like.”

“Good.” He nodded sharply. “We’ve got word of some Tevinter mercenaries gathering out on the Storm Coast.”

“The Storm Coast?” Bridget looked at him blankly.

“In Ferelden. On the … coast.”

“Oh.” She tried to look as though that had cleared up her confusion. 

“Right.” The man gave her a faintly amused glance. “Anyway, my company commander, the Iron Bull, offers this information free of charge.”

Bridget wasn’t sure she was happy with this man’s approach, or that of his company commander. “I’m afraid we’re fresh out of medals.”

The young man grinned. “That’s all right. We’ll be happy enough if you want to stay on the Storm Coast and see what the Bull’s Chargers—that’s us—might be able to do for the Inquisition.”

She wished for Varric, or Cassandra, to help her through this conversation, but no one seemed to be about. “The ‘Bull’s Chargers’? I assume that’s …”

“We’re a mercenary company,” he finished for her. “I’m Cremisius Aclassi, second in command to the Iron Bull. He’s one of those Qunari, the big guys with the horns.”

Bridget had to admit to some curiosity. She’d never seen a Qunari before, but she wasn’t sure if it would be an insult to admit that or not, or if it would make the Inquisition look bad if she accepted this offer just to see a Qunari. “Oh?”

Aclassi nodded. “Ask around; we’ve got references. We’re tough, we get the job done, and we’re professional.” He frowned at Bridget thoughtfully. “This is the first time the Iron Bull’s gone out of his way to pick a side.”

“How nice for us.”

“It could be. If you like what you see of us, we could be an asset to the Inquisition.”

“And what would that cost us?”

“I couldn’t say. That would be for the Iron Bull to decide.”

“Well, in that case, I look forward to meeting him.”

Aclassi grinned widely. “Glad to hear it.” He handed her a rolled parchment. “Directions to our base, and marked locations where we’ve seen the Tevinters.”

“We’ll look into it,” Bridget promised him.

He nodded and turned on his heel, hurrying down the muddy road toward the gates before Bridget could ask him anything further.

She unrolled the parchment, but didn’t recognize the coastline on it. Which wasn’t much of a surprise, really, since she’d never been to the Storm Coast. Maybe Cullen would have more familiarity with the area—he was Fereldan, wasn’t he? 

Outside the gates, she found Cullen watching the men spar, shouting out commands and corrections as he saw mistakes in their fighting style. Bridget couldn’t see any of the errors he claimed were so glaring, but her eye was hardly trained to such things.

She was a little nervous approaching Cullen; while she had never felt the gap between mages and Templars, the hostility that appeared to be so common, she had the sense that Cullen had. She knew he had been at Kirkwall when the Chantry exploded. That in itself would be enough to turn a person against the group responsible, she imagined. And while Cullen’s demeanor toward her had softened since the first time they met, if they were going to be working together as it appeared they were, she wanted to find some common ground between them.

He turned to look at her as she approached. Gesturing toward the busy training ground, he said, “We have received a number of recruits. Mostly locals from Haven, but there are already some pilgrims amongst them. No doubt there will be more to come.”

“You seem to be doing a good job training them.”

Cullen snorted, and she was instantly afraid she had said the wrong thing. “I’m doing the best I can, but there are so many coming in it’s hard to keep them organized.” He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, and Bridget could see his brow furrow briefly, as if in pain. He breathed in, then out, and said, “But I’m up to the task. I’ve never shrunk from a challenge yet.”

“I admire that,” Bridget said honestly. “I’m afraid I’ve shrunk from more than a few challenges in my time.”

“You’re here now, and that’s what matters.” He offered her a tentative smile. “You certainly made quite the entrance.”

Bridget nodded, returning the smile with a small one of her own. “I want to help, if I can.”

“There’s more than enough to do, certainly.”

“This must be very different from what you’re used to. Weren’t you stationed in Kirkwall before?” She wanted to kick herself immediately on mentioning it; probably he didn’t want to be reminded of what had happened, especially by a mage.

Cullen glanced at her, his eyes dark and his face suddenly stern and closed off. “Yes. This is—different, but in some ways the same.”

“Ser!” One of his men came hurrying up to him with a dispatch, and Cullen took it, read it over, scribbled some notes on it, and sent the man back the way he had come. 

When the man was gone, Cullen looked back at Bridget. “I’m sorry. I was going to say— It doesn’t matter what I was going to say. What I want you to know is that I left the Templars to join this cause because I believe in what the Inquisition is trying to do. I am … cautious with mages. Given some of my past experiences, I can’t help that. But I intend to try my best to leave some of the attitudes I was trained in behind.”

“Thank you,” Bridget said softly. “I appreciate that. For my part—we had a pleasant relationship in the Ostwick Circle. I harbor no ill will toward Templars. Or former Templars.” She looked at him curiously. “You truly believe the Inquisition can work?”

“I do. The Chantry has lost control of mages and Templars alike—if it ever had the control it claimed, which I am no longer certain of. Now they argue while the Breach remains. Meanwhile, the Inquisition is free to act, and our followers would be part of that. There is so much we can do—“ He stopped himself with a rueful smile. “But you didn’t come here to be lectured.”

“I appreciate that you’ve given this a lot of thought.”

“I have. Possibly too much.”

“Is there such a thing?”

Cullen chuckled. “You might be surprised.” The smile faded from his face. “But I know all too well what happens when order is lost and action comes too late. We still have a lot of work ahead of us.” Another soldier came hurrying up to them with a dispatch. Cullen took it, raising an eyebrow in Bridget’s direction. “As I was saying—“

She smiled. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” She tucked the map Aclassi had left her away in a pocket; she could bring it up later in the War Room. Or perhaps Leliana was familiar with the Storm Coast. For the moment, she was late for her training session with Solas, whom she found waiting for her outside his cabin.

He admired the new staff, and they worked on building her comfort with it. Vivienne’s lesson had been very technical, on how to channel her power through the staff. Solas was more practical, more concerned with teaching Bridget to hold it and move it naturally.

“In a combat situation, you will need to be able to draw it quickly and bring it into play without hitting anyone around you.”

Bridget flushed; even without the harness to remove the staff from adding to the complexity, she had struck Solas’s staff with her own three times in the course of the training.

He smiled at her kindly. “It takes practice; you are coming along nicely, given how many lessons you are learning, and at what a pace.” He looked at her searchingly. “Are you ready to learn more?” 

“I was thinking of branching out a bit, possibly learning some fire spells? I know the rudiments of one; it was useful when the wind blew out the fires in the Circle.”

“Then you have a start. Practice that, somewhere safe. I recommend a rock rather than a tree.” Solas smiled, and Bridget laughed.

“Duly noted. Solas,” she said abruptly, reminded of a question she’d had. “Does it bother you that I’ve brought Vivienne on board?”

“Should it?”

“She’s a mage.”

“As are you. As is Adan. And several others I could name.”

“I suppose when you put it that way. I just … I am grateful for all the help you’ve given me, and I didn’t want you to think that …”

“That you were replacing me with a human woman?” The faint smile on his face softened the words. “I have not known you long, Bridget Trevelyan, but I have known you long enough not to worry about that.” His smile broadened. “Perhaps I should worry that you are replacing me with Sera as the token elf amongst your companions.”

“Definitely not.” Bridget didn’t smile; she was in earnest here. “In my Circle, there was little difference. We were all mages. If I have anything to say about it, the Inquisition will include elves and dwarves … even Qunari,” she added, thinking of the Iron Bull Aclassi had mentioned. “I hope you know that about me, too.”

Solas nodded. “I hope so.”

It wasn’t a ringing endorsement of her intentions, but she was new and she had the sense that Solas did not trust easily. For now, she would take his hesitant optimism and hope for a greater trust between them someday. 

She left Solas and approached Leliana’s tent, meaning to ask her about the map of the Storm Coast. Bridget saw the spymaster deep in conversation with one of her scouts. She came closer, not meaning to listen in, but Leliana was speaking more loudly than was her wont.

“There were so many questions surrounding Farrier’s death. Did he think we wouldn’t notice?” she was saying venomously. “He killed Farrier—one of my best agents. And he knows where the others are.” She shook her head. “You know what must be done. Make it clean. Painless, if you can. We were friends once.”

The scout nodded, eyes wide, but said nothing.

Bridget stopped still in the entrance to the tent, shocked. Was Leliana really ordering someone’s death? Was that the kind of Inquisition they were building? “What are you doing?” she asked before she could stop to think.

Leliana turned to look at her, startled. “He betrayed us! He murdered my agent!”

“And you’d kill him? Just like that?”

“You find fault with my decision?” Leliana asked coldly, crossing her arms.

Part of Bridget wanted to back down. The woman before her had so much more experience than she did, knew so much more about the world, and was clearly willing to make the kind of hard decisions Bridget herself would shrink from. But at the same time … “We can’t solve our problems with murder.”

“What would you suggest? Leave him be? Butler’s betrayal put our agents in danger! I condemn one man to save dozens.”

“Would you condemn ten to save hundreds? A hundred to save thousands? Where does it end, Leliana?”

They were standing very close to one another, and Bridget would have given everything to have stepped back from the tent and never walked in on the conversation. But … this was her Inquisition, too. She bore the mark that would close the Breach. Was this the kind of action she wanted to champion? She knew that it wasn’t. 

“I may not like what I do,” Leliana said in a low, savage tone, “but it must be done. I cannot afford the luxury of ideals at a time like this.”

“If we give up our ideals, what do we have left? What are we doing all this for, if not for an ideal?” Bridget gestured around her. “This is not what these people are here for.” For better or for worse, she had planted her foot on this ground, and she was not going to be moved off it.

Leliana stared at her for another long moment, and then she turned away, toward the scout. Bridget let out a long breath. Had she really just done that, stood up to the Left Hand of the Divine that way?

“Apprehend Butler, but see that he lives,” Leliana said to the scout, who nodded and practically ran out of the tent.

Both women were silent, Bridget uncertain what she could say. 

Leliana looked up at the sky, her face twisted in pain. “Is that what You want from us? Blood? To die so that Your will is done? Is death Your only blessing?” She turned to Bridget. “You speak for Andraste, so speak. What does the Maker’s prophet have to say about all this?”

“I’m as baffled as you are.”

“Then we can only guess at what He wants.” She looked down at her hands, spreading them in front of her. “The Chantry teaches us that the Maker abandoned us, that He demands repentance for our sins before He will return.” She swallowed hard. “He demands it all. Our lives, our deaths. Justinia gave Him everything she had, and He let her die!”

“I’m sorry. I wish … I wish I’d known her.”

Leliana nodded, her face softening a bit. “I do, too. She was … she was the heart of the faithful. If the Maker doesn’t intervene to save the best of His servants, what good is He? Why should we care more than he does?” She sighed. “I used to believe I was chosen, the way some say you are. I thought I was fulfilling His purpose for me, working with the Divine, helping people. I believed in the Maker’s love, in the beauty of His world. But look out there. What beauty is there? What love, when someone so good, so beloved, lies in ashes?” She shook her head, her brow furrowing in anger again. “It was all for nothing. Serving the Maker meant nothing.”

“Service with a true heart always means something. My mother taught me that.” Impulsively, Bridget took a step toward the other woman. “Maybe you have another purpose. I could help you find it.”

“No. This is my burden.” Leliana stepped back. “I regret that I ever let you see me like this.” She waved a hand in the air, clearly indicating that Bridget should leave. “It was a moment of weakness. It will not happen again.”

Bridget hesitated. What right did she have to advise someone with so much more experience than she had? But Leliana clearly needed something, someone, even if she wouldn’t admit it. “We all have moments of weakness, Leliana. Denying them is as bad as giving in to them.”

The spymaster wanted to snap at her, Bridget could see, but she thought better of it, sighing. “Perhaps you are right. Nonetheless … railing at the Maker will not change the situation.” She walked to the open flap of the tent. “The people are frightened, Bridget. Reports of Fade rifts and demons keep coming, and it is only getting worse. The only thing that will calm their fears is the hope that someone out there can save them.” She turned back toward Bridget, their eyes meeting. “You are that someone. You must be. Whatever your own doubts and fears, you mustn’t let them be seen. No one else has any power over the rifts—we all must count on you.”

Bridget swallowed. It was nothing she hadn’t known already, but … “I know it.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Seal the rifts. Your legend will spread, and Thedas will learn to trust the Inquisition.”

“Is it that easy?”

“Yes, and no. Like anything.”

“Leliana.”

“Yes?”

“Why is it that you support the mages so earnestly? Why do you want me to seek out the rebel mages? I understand why Cullen is pushing me toward the Templars, but …”

“I’ve known mages. Some of them were better people than me.” Leliana smiled, a bitter smile. “Most of them, if truth were told. And yet, I am free, and they are not. It’s not right.”

“No. I suppose it isn’t,” Bridget said. A week ago, she would have defended the Circles, but … perhaps not now. Perhaps not anymore.

“Will you go?”

“Not yet.” Bridget belatedly pulled out the parchment. “I was approached by a man on behalf of a mercenary company called the Bull’s Chargers.”

“The Chargers? Really.” Leliana smiled. “I’ve seen the Iron Bull, at a party or two. He and his men might well be an asset to the Inquisition.”

“Good. Then I’ll head for the Storm Coast next, and we’ll decide about the mages and Templars once and for all when I get back.”

Leliana nodded. “Perhaps while you are there, you can search for anything that might offer clues to the whereabouts of the Wardens.” She looked at Bridget searchingly. “I see you brought Warden Blackwall back with you.”

There was nothing wrong with that, but Bridget found it difficult not to blush anyway. “Yes. When we told him about the missing Wardens, he wanted to come along to help look for them, but he didn’t know anything himself. I gather he spent a lot of time on his own, recruiting.”

“That is a shame. Perhaps if you take him with you to the Storm Coast, he can help you search for anything that might shed some light on that mystery.”

“Yes.” This time Bridget did blush, and she could tell Leliana saw it, but mercifully her spymaster asked no questions. Which was good, because Bridget couldn’t have said why she was blushing. He was a good-looking man, yes, but the Inquisition was full of those. “I’ll do that. See you when we get back.”

“Travel safely.” 

In the tavern later, as Bridget was enjoying her evening meal and a brief rest, the chair opposite her was abruptly pulled out and the elven girl Sera collapsed in it. “So, this is it? Thought it’d be bigger, all … towery.” She giggled. “That would’ve been hilarious if you were a man, right? Wasted.” She shook her head.

Bridget smiled. “Too bad I’m not, then.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. All trousers, them. Why bother?” Sera looked around the room. “Big to-do, this, but needs more coin flowing. Everyone’s too busy to look up at the real questions, but they have to if things are going to get back to normal.”

“Whose normal, though? My normal was being walled in with my fellow mages. I … don’t know if I’d want to go back now.” Bridget was surprised to find herself meaning it. She missed her friends in the Circle, but now she was doing important things. She didn’t want to stop.

Sera frowned at her. “Yeah? Yeah.” She shook her head hard, as if a bug was buzzing near her ear. “First things first, right? I help you—march-march-arrow-kick—and then people stop being stupid, and everything starts to make sense again.”

Bridget considered pointing out that the Inquisition was hardly in a position to stop stupidity in general, but she didn’t think that would satisfy Sera. “I’ll give it a shot,” she said instead. “That’s all I can ask from anyone.”

“Shot, like with an arrow. I can do that.”

“Good.”

“What’s your network like, Sera?”

Sera frowned. “Not mine. It’s everyone’s. Well, I guess I’m part of everyone, so it’s mine …” She shook her head. “Too confusing. All I know is nobles hide behind gold and silk, and those little hats, and sooner or later everyone wants to shove it to them.”

“So are you Red Jenny?”

“Pfft. Hardly. ‘Red’ is scary because blood, and Jenny … look, nobody fears a random bunch of people. They need a name, a title, someone to point at. So, Red Jenny.” She grinned. “Nobles need a bogeyman, because they don’t think normal people can get to them.”

“But then … don’t people think you’re guilty of things you haven’t done?”

“Sure. Why not? Let ‘em.” Sera shrugged. 

Bridget looked around them at the tavern full of people. “Are some of these your … friends?”

“Dunno. Don’t want to know. They wouldn’t be much use if we all knew each other. Sort of the point.” She looked at Bridget as if she was particularly thick, which Bridget supposed she was. “Every baddie uses people—cooks, squires … wipers.” She grinned. “The ones with wipers deserve it right in the— Well, anyway, whenever you need something done, little people are there to help, in a million different ways. It just works. Most of the time.” Sera winked at her, and was off. Bridget got the impression she didn’t like sitting still for long.

Behind her, she heard Varric say, “If you ask me, that girl’s a few ants shy of a picnic.”

Bridget turned, smiling at him. “Personally, I’d say she’s got more than enough ants. But we can use that kind of energy.”

“If you say so, Sunflower. Mind some company?”

“Not as long as it’s yours.” 

“Flattery will get you … a much bigger role in the book.”

“I’m not sure I’m exciting enough to be in a book.” 

Varric raised his eyebrows. “You’d be the only one, then. Falling out of the sky, flashy green thing in your hand, turning Thedas’s most wanted criminal into the spokesperson for the Inquisition—“

“Hardly that,” Bridget protested.

Varric’s eyebrows rose even further, but he didn’t argue.

Bridget took her last few bites of stew and pushed the plate away with a sigh. “If I keep on eating like this, I’ll need to get larger clothes.”

“Keeps you warm in this weather.” Varric shivered. 

“Varric …” 

“Something on your mind, Sunflower?”

“About the red lyrium at the temple.” Bridget had been wanting to ask him, but had been afraid to bring it up. He’d been so disturbed when he saw it in the ruins.

He took a deep breath, as if to prepare himself for her questions. “What do you want to know?”

“How do you know about it?”

“Because my brother Bartrand and I discovered it during an expedition in the Deep Roads. It was an ancient thaig, so old it barely looked dwarven, and in it was an idol made of red lyrium.” He shivered again, this time not for effect. “Bartrand went mad almost immediately, it seemed. He brought it back to the surface, and … everything went to the Void.”

“But what is it? Just another kind of lyrium? It felt … different.”

“It is different. I’m no expert on lyrium, but as far as I can tell the red stuff is lyrium like a dragon’s a lizard. It’s not just the color—it’s … all sorts of weirdnesses all its very own.” He shook his head. “I’ve written to every Mining Caste house in Orzammar. No one’s ever seen the stuff before. No one’s ever even heard of it.”

“Something must have happened to make you afraid of it.”

“Something? Everything, Sunflower. My brother went crazy listening to the song of the lyrium and started eating his own people. Knight-Commander Meredith turned into a red lyrium statue in the middle of Kirkwall. And, unlike regular lyrium, you don’t have to ingest it. All you have to do is be around the red stuff to go out of your mind.”

Bridget frowned. “If you found it in some long-buried thaig, how did it get into the Temple of Sacred Ashes?”

“Beats me. So far as I know, the only piece to make it to the surface was destroyed. And the location of the thaig it came from is a secret.” Something flickered in his eyes, and he averted his face. “I don’t know how it got there.” He shook his head. “Unless someone found more in the Deep Roads, and you’ll forgive me if I say that scares me shitless.” Standing up abruptly, he said, “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to turn in. This … isn’t my favorite subject.”

“Of course.”

Bridget had managed to go most of the day, other than the few strange minutes in Leliana’s tent, without thinking about their new Grey Warden ally, but as she got up from her table and moved toward the door of the tavern, she caught Blackwall’s eye, and she couldn’t help but smile.   
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
That smile warmed Blackwall all through, and he got to his feet without exactly having intended to. He’d given himself lectures all the way back from the Hinterlands about remaining aloof, not allowing himself to get too close to anyone in this Inquisition he had joined. Who knew whether there were any former Orlesian soldiers amongst the people who had assembled on this icy mountaintop, soldiers who might remember a captain named Thom Rainier?

But the Herald of Andraste was not a former Orlesian soldier; she had no way of knowing he was not exactly who he said he was, he told himself. He met her at the door. “Chilly out there.”

“Yes, it is.” She blushed a little. “But someone will have built a fire in my hut, so it will be warm when I get there. They always do.”

“You are the Herald of Andraste, after all.” He looked searchingly into her blue eyes. “Weren’t you from a noble family? Surely you’re used to being waited on.”

“Not really. I was in the Circle for so long … I don’t remember what it was like. And I was so young—other than a nursemaid, I didn’t come in contact with a lot of servants.” She glanced up at him. “What about you? How did you grow up?”

“Oh, about the same as most people,” he said breezily. “Shall I walk you back to your hut? Perhaps I can block some of the wind.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“No,” he agreed, “but I’m offering.”

“Thank you, then.” 

She didn’t take his arm, but they left the tavern together. Too late, Blackwall considered what that might look like to the other people collected there, people who watched the Herald’s every move. He had learned that much already; most of those at Haven had either come because of her or had learned to admire her while they were here. He would need to remember that going forward: He was only one of many, and should try to blend further into the background.

“How has it been here for you so far?” she asked.

“No complaints. It’s been a while since I’ve lived near so many people. I’m used to … open space, a clear sky.” He looked up, seeing the Breach glowing green and bright, eclipsing the stars. “It’s so much easier to ignore that when it’s far away. Here … it’s so close.” Blackwall looked at Bridget. “To actually walk out of it …”

She looked down at her boots. “I don’t remember it, any of it. If I hadn’t been saved by Inquisition soldiers …”

That surprised him. He had heard—well, he had heard she was saved by Andraste herself, and seeing her now, the delicacy of her, hearing her sweet voice … yes, he could believe someone like this could draw Andraste’s attention. 

“It seemed so simple, before,” she said softly. “In the Circle. Out here—“

“I know. The Breach, the Divine’s death, the missing Wardens …” Blackwall shook his head. “There’s so much we don’t know.”

She stopped walking and looked up at him. “That’s why I appreciate you coming with us. Your experience with the Wardens will be invaluable. Oh! I didn’t think—some of those missing Wardens must have been your friends.”

Blackwall shifted uncomfortably. If only she knew … “I doubt it,” he said. “I’ve spent enough time in the Wilderness on my own, I don’t imagine any of them would remember me.” He cleared his throat. “As for my experience with the Wardens, well …” He remembered a long-ago conversation with the real Blackwall. “There are treaties, though—as a Warden, I can ask for assistance all across Thedas. Musty old parchments, but they have their uses.”

Bridget looked up at him, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “If I didn’t know better, I would think you were talking about more than parchments. I imagine you have your uses, too.”

He chuckled. “Possibly.” The smile faded as he stood there with her. Could this woman in front of him truly have been touched by the Bride of the Maker? Was that what made her so … luminous, standing here in the greenish moonlight? “What about you?” he asked her, his voice sounding hoarse to his own ears. “How do you fit into all this?”

“I just want to help stop the war,” she said earnestly, “try to put things back in order.”

“Which order? Whose?”

“I don’t know. I wish I did.”

“A difficult goal, if you don’t know where the path will lead … but it’s a worthy one,” he said softly, “and one I’m happy to support.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that.” She smiled at him, and then she turned away and walked across the frozen mud back to her cabin. Blackwall stood and watched her go, feeling old, and foolish.


	7. Wilderness

Bridget stared up at the huge mountain in her way. “Maker, no. I’ll never make it.”

“Come on, Sunflower. If I can, you can.” Varric’s voice was cheerful, but his face looked as gloomy and downcast as Bridget felt. Or as the weather, which was roughly the same. Rain, rain, and more rain. The branches were dripping liberally, the ground was sticky mud underfoot, and all Bridget could think of was getting back to Haven and sitting down with a hot cup of tea in hand.

Surprisingly, Vivienne, whom Bridget would have expected to hate this, seemed perfectly serene, surveying her surroundings with a placid interest.

Less surprisingly, Blackwall was invigorated by it, outstripping them all as he hiked up the rocky, mud-slick mountain trails and having to double back to retrieve them.

“Come on,” he said encouragingly, holding out a work-roughened hand. Bridget took it in hers, feeling a warmth as it closed over her more pampered soft fingers that heartened her. Maybe not quite as much as the cup of tea would have, but enough to get her up the next section of trail. “You just have to keep at it,” he told her. “Once you’ve worn out your first pair of boots, you’ll be climbing mountains like a goat.”

“Um, thank you?” Bridget looked doubtfully down at her boots. They seemed well on their way to being worn out to her, but then, she wasn’t used to putting much wear and tear at all on her footwear.

Blackwall chuckled, appearing oblivious to the water dripping off the end of his beard and plastering his hair to his forehead. “Not much farther now to the rendezvous with this Iron Bull.”

“Have you heard of him?”

He frowned thoughtfully. “Can’t say I have, but I don’t spend much time around people. Or, at least, I didn’t use to.”

Vivienne spoke up, “Oh, my dear, he is all the rage in Orlais. I understand both his weapons are quite large, and for hire with equal enthusiasm.”

“Both his—? Oh.” Bridget supposed she could understand that. A Qunari would be an exotic bed partner for a bored noble.

“The Chargers are the real deal, despite the Iron Bull’s other prowess,” Varric told her. “They do good work, on time, and they rarely make a bigger mess than they started with. I’d say they’d make a good addition to the Inquisition, but of course, that’s your call, Sunflower.”

Bridget still hadn’t quite gotten used to these things being her call, and she couldn’t help wondering what they were thinking, letting her be in charge in the field. But she was, so she might as well act like it. “Thank you, Varric. And Vivienne. I’m sure meeting this Iron Bull will be educational.”

Varric chuckled, and Blackwall cast her a grave sideways glance. Bridget was grateful for his concern, and she felt he understood her reservations about this Qunari and his mercenary company. Or perhaps she was just imagining things. It felt so comforting to have someone of Blackwall’s skills and experiences at her side in the middle of this wilderness.

Hours later, she walked away from her first meeting with a Qunari feeling troubled. She had agreed to bring the Iron Bull and his men into the Inquisition, and somehow she had been talked into having the Iron Bull as one of her companions … but she wasn’t sure how that had happened, and she didn’t like the sensation of being manipulated.

On the face of it, he’d been nothing but honest. He had spoken at length, and with unmistakable pride, about the Chargers and their various skills and talents; he had boasted about his own prowess on the battlefield and what he could bring to a fight. And he was large, and clearly skilled with his blade, as Bridget had observed in the brief battle they’d fought against some Tevinters. But that was what worried her—he carried himself as another mercenary, crude and boorish and none too bright, but that all changed when he was speaking to her, and a great and, frankly, frightening intelligence looked at her out of that single eye. She had to admit the dichotomy made her a bit uncomfortable; as did his open admission that he was a spy for the Qunari, working as a mercenary so he could funnel information back to the leadership on Par Vollen. 

Could she really trust him to be straight with her? She wished for an answer, someone to tell her right out which was the real Iron Bull.

The Chargers were celebrating their victory, and their new alliance with the Inquisition, with open casks and a bonfire and a feast of fried fish, something Bridget had never tasted before but found she quite liked, salty and piping hot. Blackwall sat off to the side, nearly obscured in the darkness, but Varric was in the midst of a group, telling stories, and Vivienne was trying, and failing, to teach some of the Iron Bull’s people the steps to an intricate Orlesian dance.

“Ah, there you are, Your Worship.”

It was the Iron Bull’s lieutenant, Krem, the one who had come to Haven.

“There’s really no need for such formality.”

“If you say so,” Krem said, but Bridget could tell he wasn’t buying it. “Couldn’t help but notice you missed the first round. And the second.” He paused for a moment, looking at her, then said, “Chief not quite what you were expecting?”

“You could say that.”

“Yeah.” Krem nodded. “He strikes some people that way. It’s the big dumb ox routine, and most people fall for it, but then he lets you see there’s more there and … it doesn’t quite match up.”

Bridget asked, “Was that your first experience with him, too?”

Krem smiled, an oddly dark smile, just a shade on the bitter side. “Not exactly. It was hard to see much of him with the blood.”

“What blood?”

“Running down his face. See, he saved my life the first time I met him. Never thought I’d work for a Qunari, but he grows on you. You’ll see.”

Intrigued, Bridget said, “Tell me more. It seems odd to find a Tevinter soldier in a Qunari spy’s mercenary company.”

“It does sound a bit odd, when you put it that way, but see, I wasn’t exactly a Tevinter soldier. I tried to be, but they didn’t take kindly to what I didn’t have in my pants, like that made any difference to how I could fight. Kicked the asses of most of my company, but that didn’t matter.” Krem tossed back a long swallow of whatever was in his mug, staring morosely out across the water. “So I ran, hoping to find a place where I could be who I am.”

“You seem to have done so.”

“Yes, but it wasn’t easy. A tribune and his men caught me in a border tavern; they meant to make an example out of me. They jumped me, and two of them held me down while the other one came at me with a flail. Next thing I know, some big horned monster is between me and the flail. Next thing after that, the guy with the flail is dead, and so are his two friends, and the big monster is holding out his hand to help me up. Blood streaming down his face where the flail hit him, and he takes the time to patch me up.” Krem gave a small smile. A real one, this time. “I’ve been putting up with his jokes ever since.”

Bridget raised her eyebrows. “That’s how he lost the eye?”

“Yep. Gave it up for me.” Krem shook his head. “Big horned idiot. Didn’t even know me. You can bet the Ben-Hassrath didn’t tell him to do that.”

“No, I imagine they wouldn’t have.”

“So, if you’re thinking he won’t play straight with you because he’s two different people, or because he has loyalties to where he came from … well, a lot of people are loyal to where they came from. With him, it’s just easier to tell where that was. He’ll do his best for you, write a few letters home, talk to you about the letters he gets in return.”

“I suppose that’s all I can ask for.”

“It’s a steal. Trust me.”

Bridget smiled. Her concerns weren’t gone, but they had been significantly eased. “Thank you, Krem. I look forward to seeing what the Chargers—and the Iron Bull—can add to the Inquisition.”

The next day, while the Chargers were packing up and getting ready to head south to Haven, Bridget and her people climbed the mountains again, searching for signs of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, who were supposed to have passed through the area on their way to Orlais.

Blackwall was tense, unsmiling, more closed off than Bridget had yet seen him. She stuck close by his side, hoping he would understand that she was there if he wanted to talk, but she didn’t pry.

Not far inland from the beach, they found remnants of an old camp, and a few torn pages that looked to have come from a journal. Bridget read them over silently and handed them to Blackwall.

“So they were here. But who were they looking for?” he wondered aloud.

“They weren’t looking for you?” Bridget asked. “The journal says, ‘if he was here, it was some time ago’—when was the last time you were on the Storm Coast?”

“I can’t remember,” he said absently, “but it wasn’t me.”

“Are you certain? I imagine they would have wanted to collect all the Wardens, wherever they were going.”

“It wasn’t me, all right?” he snapped. “Can we just keep going?”

Bridget was taken aback. But these had been his friends, his people. No doubt he was worried about what had happened to them. She would be cranky, too, she told herself.

They climbed farther up. Varric was lagging behind now, spending a lot of time stopping to pretend to look Bianca over for damage. He waved the rest of them on, promising to catch up.

The next camp had a few more torn journal pages. They were hard to read—it looked as though someone had used them for kindling. Only the heavy rag stock of the vellum, and the thoroughly wet conditions, had preserved any of it from the fire. Bridget made out a phrase or two: “one of our most skilled warriors”, “asked about joining the Grey Wardens. Under other circumstances,” and something else about “the constant whisper at the back of my mind.” Bridget asked Blackwall about that. 

“I don’t know,” he said, still snappishly. “Maybe the Warden Commander was going mad.”

“That would explain a good many things,” Vivienne said. She was watching Blackwall sharply, as if she thought he knew more than he was telling. Bridget thought that was possible, too, but short as her acquaintance with Blackwall had been, she was certain that pushing him for answers wasn’t the way to get them. Whatever he knew, he would tell them in his own good time. She was sure of it.

A third camp was hidden in the ruins of an old farmhouse high on a hill. It was beautiful here, Bridget thought, especially now that there was a break in the rain, but so much on the Storm Coast appeared to have been abandoned. It was a little depressing.

She said as much to Blackwall as he studied another torn and almost illegible page. Bridget made out the words “preparing to die with honor,” or at least, thought that was what the page said. Was that Blackwall’s secret? Had he been planning to die rather than accompany his fellow Wardens? She glanced at him, but his face was closed off, his eyes shuttered.

A final camp was nestled in a little hollow between two massive overhanging boulders.

“This is it,” Blackwall said hoarsely. “This is where they gave up.”

He held up another page, this one well-preserved, tucked under some rocks as if it had been meant to be found.

“There are darkspawn here. Ready to come up any day.”

Bridget read over his shoulder about how the other Wardens had sensed the darkspawn. “Can you feel them?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

She looked at him, not wanting to push but knowing she couldn’t leave it at that. “I am going to need more than that, Blackwall. The Wardens could be valuable allies … and their disappearance is concerning.”

“I know that!”

“Then you have to tell me something. Maybe not now … but eventually.” She didn’t like pulling rank, but it was the truth. She couldn’t afford to coddle him, not if he knew something that might help.

“I don’t know any more than you do.”

She looked at him. In their brief acquaintance, she had trusted him, felt comfortable with him … but he wasn’t telling all the truth. She could feel it. “I doubt that,”she told him quietly.

He didn’t say anything, just turned away and started unrolling canvas to set up a tent.

Bridget followed him. “Can I help? I don’t have a lot of experience with setting up camp, and I need to—“

“You’ll only slow things down,” he said brusquely.

She recoiled as if she had been slapped, grateful that Varric and Vivienne weren’t nearby to have heard him speak to her that way. To her embarrassment, she had to blink back tears.

Blackwall stopped and looked at her more fully, his face softening as if he recognized her distress. “I’m sorry. That was uncharitable of me, and wrong to boot. You work as hard as anyone I’ve ever met; you’ll get to be fast at this with practice. Today … today can you let me do this? I need—I need to think, to clear my head.”

Bridget nodded. That she understood. “I’ll be just over there, working on the fire, if you want to talk.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
He kept his distance from her, not sure what he could say that would keep his secret intact and still answer her very reasonable questions. But the hurt look in her eyes, even while Blackwall could see she was struggling to be understanding, cut him to the quick. She was trying to do a job that would have been hard for anyone, with no training whatsoever and very little assistance. The last thing she needed was some grumpy mountain man lying to her. He owed her … something.

At the end of the evening, he found her still sitting by the fire, chatting with Vivienne. The Orlesian mage got up as Blackwall approached, as if she could tell he wanted a private chat with Bridget, and withdrew to the tent the two women would be sharing. Blackwall could see Varric’s shadow on their tent wall; the dwarf was writing again. Blackwall hoped not about him, although he couldn’t see what about him would make an interesting story, anyway.

Bridget looked up at him, but she waited for him to speak.

“I … wanted to thank you. There are a hundred things demanding your time, and yet you came out here and helped me hunt for the Grey Wardens.”

“Well. It wasn’t just for you,” Bridget said. “Leliana wanted to know as well, and the Wardens would be a very useful addition to the Inquisition, if we could find more of them.” She offered him a smile. “Not that you haven’t been helpful; I’m not sure what I would do without you out here.”

Blackwall could feel his cheeks coloring, and he was grateful for the beard. “I haven’t done that much.”

“If you say so.” 

“I’m sorry I was short with you today.”

“It was hard, finding no sign of your fellow Wardens. I understand.”

“Yes. And I appreciate your patience. Do you—what questions do you have?”

Bridget’s blue eyes looked straight into his. “Are you the warrior they were looking for?”

“No. I don’t know who it is, but I know it isn’t me. I’ve been in the south of Ferelden for years; I can’t imagine anyone would be looking for me up here.” It was the truth, as far as it went, he told himself.

“The darkspawn. Can you—can the Wardens—sense them somehow?”

“That is a Grey Warden secret. It requires someone higher up the chain of command than I am to break it.” That, too, was more or less the truth. 

She stood up, stepping closer to him, her eyes sparking in the firelight. “Was it you they meant when they said someone had been preparing to die with honor? Did you … do you want to die?”

He couldn’t have held the answer back if he’d tried; she drew it from him with those dark blue eyes, that steady gaze. “Not anymore.”

“But you did before.”

“There were times.”

“What changed?” They were speaking very softly.

“You did. You—You brought me out of the wilderness, into the world of men again. Because you, and the Inquisition, needed me. And … I’ve a great admiration for you,” he admitted. “The way you face all these unfamiliar tests, the challenges they bring, your willingness to do what needs to be done. I want to help, in whatever way I can.”

Her eyes were soft, like a flower. “Thank you.”

“You have the world at your feet,” he said. “Myself included.” Now where had that come from? Blackwall asked himself. Too much Orlesian poetry.

Bridget swallowed, shifting her feet uncomfortably. “I don’t deserve that sort of reverence.”

“Hold on to that modesty as long as you can. There will be many out there who want to try to build you up.”

“Like you?” Blackwall couldn’t tell if she was teasing him or not.

“I meant every word.” His voice came out husky and soft. That damned poetry again, leading him to places he shouldn’t want to go. He cleared his throat. “I should … retire.”

Bridget took a sudden step back, as if she had only just realized how close they were standing to one another. “As should I. Blackwall?” she called, just as he was about to lift his tent flap.

He paused, looking at her over his shoulder.

“I’m sorry about the Wardens.”

“So am I.”


	8. The Venatori

They were back at it again, the three advisors. Well, really just the two—Leliana urging an alliance with the mages, Cullen arguing that the Templars were a better choice. Josephine just watched them both with distress.

Bridget held herself silent. This wasn’t her call, not really. These people were the leadership of the Inquisition—she was merely its public face.

But they weren’t getting anywhere, and tempers were rising, and, at the end of the day, Bridget was a mage. Without ever intending to speak, much less to make a definitive statement of intentions, she found herself raising her voice to be heard. “We go with the mages.”

All three advisors snapped their heads around to look at her.

“Are you certain this is what you wish to do?” Cullen asked.

“Yes.” Bridget held her ground firmly. She had taken her stance; now she would back it up. “The mages have the magical power to help us with the Breach. Grand Enchanter Fiona sent us the message through Vivienne that she wished to meet—while the Templars have made it abundantly clear they want nothing to do with us. The mages are here in Redcliffe, so if anything goes wrong we have better access to our army for backup.”

Cullen frowned at her thoughtfully. “You make a good point. Several good points.”

She had said no more than Leliana had already said repeatedly. Bridget supposed the difference was that he hadn’t been listening to Leliana; he had been thinking of what he would say in support of the Templars while Leliana was speaking. 

“Then it is decided?” Josephine looked at the three of them, ill-disguised relief in her eyes. It was much easier for her to manage her job, and to convince their visitors and supporters of the rightness of the decision, now that a decision had been made.

“It is,” Bridget said firmly. It felt good to be in charge, illusory though the feeling was. “I’ll leave in the morning to meet Grand Enchanter Fiona in Redcliffe.”

On their arrival in Redcliffe the next day they were met by an Inquisition scout. “Your Worship.”

“Arlyn, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Your Worship.” The elf blushed, clearly a bit overwhelmed that Bridget knew her name.

“Report, please.”

“Of course. It seems …” Arlyn shifted her weight uncomfortably. “It seems that no one knew we were expected.”

“No one?” Bridget echoed in surprise. “Not even Grand Enchanter Fiona?”

“I haven’t been able to locate her, but if she was expecting us, she hasn’t told anyone else. I was able to arrange a meeting in the tavern; she should be there within the hour to discuss the mages’ willingness to cooperate with us.”

“I fail to see what there is to discuss,” Vivienne said. “The Breach threatens all of us. What objection could there be?”

Another elf, this one not in an Inquisition uniform, hurried toward them, brushing Arlyn aside. “My apologies, agents of the Inquisition. We had not been informed that you had arrived.”

“Are you representing the mages?” Bridget asked. She was about to introduce herself, but the elf started speaking before she could do so.

“Magister Alexius is in charge now, but he has not yet arrived in the village. He is expected shortly.”

“Magister?” Bridget echoed blankly. “As in, from the Imperium? What is a Tevinter magister doing in Redcliffe? And … in charge?”

“Magister Alexius will explain. I understand the former Grand Enchanter is waiting in the tavern; you may speak with her. Perhaps she can explain.”

He hurried off again, and Bridget and Vivienne exchanged looks of concern. “My dear, I do not like this at all.”

“No. Nor do I. Let’s go hear what Grand Enchanter Fiona has to say.”

Sera and Blackwall followed them silently, each keeping their own counsel.

Bridget looked around as they moved through the village. There were a lot of mages there, all talking very quietly and looking around them as if afraid, but she saw no one they should have been afraid of. She also saw no representatives of the Chantry until they reached a makeshift hospital tent put up near a small house. One weary-looking Mother was tending the sick and wounded. She stood up as Bridget approached, looking the party over.

“You look well enough.”

“We are from the Inquisition.”

“Ah. A bit too late, then.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that it would have been better if you had arrived before the Tevinters.” The Mother stifled a yawn, pressing the back of her hand against her mouth. 

“Why is it that you are the only member of the Chantry I see here?” Bridget asked.

“Because Magister Alexius convinced them all to leave ‘for their own safety’. For his convenience, more like. No concern for my own safety will drive me from my flock. If he wants me out, he’ll have to throw me out. Now, if you’ll excuse me?” Without waiting for a response, she turned to a young man lying on a cot nearby.

They left her to her work. Bridget admired that kind of devotion; she would have asked the Mother to join the Inquisition, but that would have meant ceasing her efforts here, where she was clearly much more needed.

The tavern was largely empty. Only a few mages were there, sitting tensely at the tables, watching as Bridget came in. 

Sera gave a nervous laugh and started to make a smart comment, but a look from Vivienne quelled her.

A small dark-haired elf moved toward Bridget. “You must be from the Inquisition.” 

“Yes. Bridget Trevelyan. This is Warden Blackwall, and Sera, and—“

“You needn't introduce me,” Vivienne said. “Fiona and I have known each other for a long time. Fiona, my dear, you look dreadful. Are you sleeping well?”

Fiona shook her head. “No one has slept well since … since the vote, I think.”

“On the contrary. My conscience is perfectly clear.”

“May I ask what brings you to Redcliffe?” Fiona asked Bridget, ignoring Vivienne.

“We require the mages’ help to close the Breach. Also, you sent me a message, asking me to meet you.”

“I did?” Fiona’s eyebrows flew up. “I … do not believe so.” She frowned. “There is … something, but … No. I cannot remember having sent you any message.”

Bridget wondered for a moment if Vivienne had made up the message, but given her distaste for the rebel mages, it seemed unlikely.

Fiona went on, “Whatever brought you here, the situation has changed. The free mages … have already pledged themselves to the service of the Tevinter Imperium.”

“They’ve what?” Bridget asked, shocked.

Vivienne moved closer to the Grand Enchanter. “Fiona, have you gone entirely mad?” 

Doggedly, as if she had memorized the speech and couldn’t afford to be distracted from it, Fiona continued, “As one indentured to a magister, I no longer have the authority to negotiate on behalf of the mages.”

“Whatever could have led you to do such a thing?” Bridget asked when she had recovered her voice, and her wits.

“The Templar threat was immediate! They were murdering our people! The Tevinters came and offered help when no one else would. I had no choice.”

“And the Breach?” 

“We must survive this first. Then we can worry about the torn Veil.” 

Bridget had more questions, many more, but the door of the tavern opened before she could get to them, and she turned to see a man standing there. His stance, the way he surveyed the room, indicated this could be no one else but Magister Alexius. Another man, younger, very pale, and far less sure of himself, accompanied the Magister.

Alexius came toward Bridget, a patently fake smile on his face. “Welcome, Inquisition! I apologize for not having been able to meet you when you arrived.”

Something about him ... everything about him put Bridget’s back up. “Grand Enchanter Fiona has been entertaining us with the most fascinating story,” she said coolly.

“All true, I’m sure.” Alexius’s smile took a turn for the pitying. “I am Gereon Alexius, and you are?”

“No doubt you know exactly who I am. Bridget Trevelyan, of the Inquisition.”

“Yes. Of course.” His eyes briefly flickered to the mark flashing in her left palm, and then back up. “The survivor from the Fade. You are very fortunate.”

“So far.” She held his gaze steadily. His presumption made her angry, and anger made her want to push him, to get answers. “Tell me, where is Arl Teagan? Should he not be involved in this discussion with us?”

“The Arl has left the village.”

“That’s strange,” muttered Blackwall. “I’ve never heard of an Arl abandoning his holdings. Too difficult to get them back.”

Alexius glanced at him, a slow, measuring look, before turning back to Bridget. “It was my idea, in fact. There were tensions growing, and I thought it best if the Arl left. For his own safety, of course.” He smiled. “He was not difficult to persuade.”

She thought immediately of blood magic, and her stomach turned. “Fiona tells me she is ‘indentured’. What does that mean, exactly?”

“Our southern brethren have no legal status in the Imperium. They will need to work for ten years before gaining full rights.”

“We’re not in the Imperium,” Bridget countered.

“But they are under our protection, which makes them subject to our laws. As their protector, I shall oversee their work on our behalf.”

“But why would you offer your protection to mages so far from your own homeland? What benefit does the Imperium gain?”

“The Imperium is always searching for additional soldiers for the Legion. The southern mages will be properly trained to take their place there.”

“No!” Fiona burst out. “You said not all my people would be military!”

Alexius ignored her entirely. “I am not surprised to see you here; containing the Breach is a large task, and very complicated.” His look at Bridget told her he viewed her as entirely too young and inexperienced to take on such a task. “There is no telling how many mages you might require for such an accomplishment.”

He wasn’t going to give them mages, Bridget could tell, or if he did, there wouldn’t be enough, or they would cost more than the Inquisition could afford to pay. “Can you help?” she asked, just to hear what he would say.

“Felix,” Alexius said to the young man accompanying him, “do you have the latest count of the mages we have at our disposal? Ah,” he said to Bridget, who was holding back her anger at his casual suggestion that the mages of Ferelden were his to do as he wished, “pardon my manners. My son, Felix.”

She managed to grind out a reasonably polite “How do you do,” but she didn’t take her eyes off Alexius. 

And then Alexius looked away from her, his face paling and his eyes widening, the first genuine, unstudied expression she had seen on his face. Felix was swaying visibly, his eyes closed as if in pain. He fell forward, against Bridget’s shoulder. She took a step backward, and felt Blackwall’s gauntlet against her back, giving her something to brace herself against. With that firm support, she managed to keep Felix from falling. 

“Thank you,” he said softly, standing upright again with some effort. Alexius rushed to his son’s side. 

“Felix, are you all right?”

“I … think so, Father.”

“We must get you back to the castle, get you some powders.” Without a backward glance for anyone in the tavern, Alexius hurried his son out the door.

Grand Enchanter Fiona followed them, her head down, looking for all the world like a slave. The sight sickened Bridget, and her hand clenched involuntarily. Only then did she notice the piece of paper that she was holding. Unfolding it, she read, “Come to the Chantry. You are in danger.”

“That much was obvious,” Vivienne said. The mage was as calm as ever, but Bridget could see in her eyes how angry and distressed she was. Bridget shared both emotions. How could Fiona have been so stupid? Why had the other mages allowed her to make such a disastrous decision?

“We might as well go to the Chantry, then,” she said. If someone wanted to keep her out of danger, maybe they also wanted to free the other mages from this “indenture.”

A young man stood near the door of the tavern, wearing the blank, expectant look Bridget of the Tranquil. She had always been saddened by the Tranquil, and had gone out of her way to look out for those in her Circle. She stopped to speak to the young man, who told her the Tranquil had been largely swept out of Redcliffe village, as it bothered Alexius to look at them. Bridget could only imagine a countryside full of Tranquil mages, who wanted nothing but to be useful; easy targets for rogue Templars and anyone else who might prey on them.

“Come to the Inquisition,” she said. “We can find you work.”

“That … would be nice. Yes. Thank you,” the young man said, nodding gently.

“And tell any other Tranquil you meet that the Inquisition will give them work to do as well.”

He agreed, and Bridget led her people from the tavern.

“My dear, are you certain that’s wise?” Vivienne asked. 

“Better than having them wander the countryside and get themselves killed. It isn’t their fault, what was done to them.”

Vivienne clearly considered arguing the point, but Bridget was in no mood for that particular debate right now, and the other mage seemed to recognize that. She stepped back, remaining quiet for the moment.

The Chantry was deserted, or so Bridget thought, until the doors closed behind them with a heavy clang and a slender dark-haired man in mage robes stepped out of the shadows. “I was beginning to think you were never coming,” he said, in an unmistakably Tevinter accent.

“Perhaps we shouldn’t have,” Bridget said, studying him. 

“You are the Herald of Andraste, aren’t you? You bear the mark?" At her nod, he asked, "May I see it?”

Oddly, no one had ever asked, at least, not so openly. Bridget lifted her hand, opening it so he could see the mark flashing in her palm.

“How does that work, exactly?” he asked, bending over her hand. 

Bridget shrugged, and he laughed.

“You don’t even know, do you? You just wiggle your fingers, and the rifts close.” 

“Something like that. May I ask who you are?”

“Ah, I knew I had forgotten something! Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. And you?”

“Bridget of House Trevelyan, formerly of Ostwick.”

“Indeed. How very formal we both are.” If Dorian was concerned about her companions, he showed no sign of it. 

Vivienne tsked. “Let one Tevinter in, suddenly they’re scurrying out of all the walls like roaches.”

Dorian didn’t seem offended by the remark. Instead, he seemed to find it quite amusing. He smiled at Vivienne, and said, “Surely you can see that I’m far more handsome than a cockroach.”

“What brings you to Ferelden, Dorian?” Bridget asked. “Are you part of the ‘protection’ that has been offered the southern mages?”

“Hardly.” He frowned. “Where to begin? Magister Alexius was once my mentor. We … lost touch for quite some time, and I find that he has developed some disturbing alliances. I came to offer you my help. As I’m sure you can imagine, my years training under him should make my assistance quite valuable.”

Bridget glanced over her shoulder at Blackwall, but he didn’t seem concerned by this odd Tevinter. Sera was wandering the room, no doubt looking for something to steal, Bridget thought. Well, the Chantry wasn’t using it at the moment, and it gave the elf something to do … and Maker knew the Inquisition could use the money.

“Are you a magister?” she asked Dorian.

He sighed and rolled his eyes. “Let’s skip the lecture on Tevinter politics for the moment and simply say that not all mages of the Imperium are magisters. I happen to be one of the ‘not all’.”

“Fair enough. Did you ask Felix to give me that note?”

“Yes. I imagine he’ll be meeting us here once he ditches his father.”

“Alexius couldn’t jump to Felix’s side fast enough when he pretended to be faint.”

“I don’t believe he was pretending. Felix has been suffering from a lingering illness for some time now; he is his father’s only son, and as such, the object of most of Alexius’s grander plans for his legacy.”

“So you’re here because you’re concerned about Alexius?” Bridget asked.

Dorian looked thoughtful at that. “Partly, I suppose? One of the concepts Alexius and I had been working on was time; Alexius appears to have found a way to have appeared in Redcliffe just after the Conclave.”

“Ridiculous,” Vivienne scoffed.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Blackwall said. “Think about it; how did the Tevinters manage to arrive in force, so quickly, without anyone knowing, before the Inquisition?”

“Exactly.” Dorian nodded approvingly at him. “Alexius distorted time itself.”

Bridget frowned. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

“I didn’t, either. We had never gotten it to work. Apparently at some point after I left his tutelage, Alexius managed.”

“That seems very dangerous.”

“It is. Which is why I have come to help you stop him.”

“It couldn’t be because you want the secrets of Alexius’s magic for yourself, could it?” Vivienne asked.

Dorian shook his head emphatically. “No. Not being mad, I have no use for altering time.” He frowned. “I just don’t understand what Alexius hopes to gain. The Imperium is not so desperate for slaves that it would be worth ripping time to shreds just for the mages.”

Felix emerged from the shadows, having apparently come through a side door. “It wasn’t for them,” he said. “He’s joined a cult—Tevinter supremacists. They call themselves the ‘Venatori’.” He looked at Bridget. “Their ultimate goal is to get to you.”

“Me?” She clenched her left hand. “Because of the mark.”

“I think so. And because you survived the Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

“Do you think they see her as a threat?” Blackwall asked.

“Possibly.”

“Could these Venatori be behind the rifts, or the Breach itself?” Vivienne asked, her studied persona lost in her concern.

Felix shook his head. “I don’t know, but if they are, they’re more of a threat than I thought.” He swallowed visibly, putting a hand to his head. “I love my father, and I love my country, but this? Cults? Altering time? This is madness.”

“How do we stop him?” Bridget asked, looking between the two Tevinters.

“We find out what he wants, and we get it first,” Dorian said. “Easy as pie.”

Sera’s voice floated out from the shadows somewhere. “You ever make a pie? Bloody hard. Especially the crust.” 

“Pardon my inept simile, then,” Dorian called back.

“When?” Bridget asked.

“No time like the present.”

Felix led Bridget and her people to the castle, while Dorian slipped out the side door of the Chantry, promising to meet them there. He didn’t want Alexius to know he was in Redcliffe until the last possible minute.

“Do you really believe we can trust them, my dear?”

“I think there’s a good chance, yes,” Bridget said softly, not wanting Felix to hear. “And if not … well, I don’t see what the purpose of the whole detour to the Chantry would have been, and I rather imagine Alexius wasn’t going to want me to leave Redcliffe anyway. Might as well face him now.”

“If you insist.”

Bridget glanced back at Blackwall, reassured to see he was still there.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
He was, and determined to stay there no matter what. If his task was to protect the Herald, and it seemed that it was, then he would do it to the best of his ability.

Alexius was waiting for them in the throne room. His attendants had attempted to separate the party, but Bridget, with Felix backing her up, had insisted that her people went where she went. Blackwall didn’t quite like the ease with which the Tevinters yielded, as if they didn’t think he and Sera and Vivienne looked like much of a threat. Well, perhaps they didn’t. But Sera could lodge an arrow in a man’s eye before he could blink, he himself had kept in shape all these years fighting darkspawn and bandits and bears and whatever else came to hand to fight, and Vivienne was right scary even before she drew her staff and began to cast.

The Magister stood up from the throne, coming toward them. “Ah, you came to conclude our discussion, I see. I’m sure we can work out an … equitable arrangement.”

Grand Enchanter Fiona, standing behind him, looked distressed. “Are we mages to have no voice in deciding our fate?” 

Vivienne said cuttingly, “You gave up that right when you sold yourselves to the Tevinters. How do the Circles look to you now, my dear? I think your people would rather go back than to find out what’s ahead of them.”

Alexius ignored her, saying, “Fiona, you entrusted me with the care of your followers’ lives, remember? Clearly, you have given me the task of deciding their fate.”

Bridget said, “I would prefer to have the Grand Enchanter’s opinion as we go forward. For one thing, she will know which mages are likely to be the most useful in closing the Breach. I doubt you’ve had the time to learn much about the individual mages’ skills.” She stressed “time” ever so lightly, and Alexius gave a faint frown in response.

“Fine,” he snapped. “Let’s get on with it, shall we? What do you offer for my mages?”

“Actually,” Bridget said, “I wondered what you could tell me about the Venatori.”

Alexius took a hasty step toward her before he caught herself. “Where did you hear that name?”

“I told her,” Felix said quickly.

“What have you done?”

“He brought me here,” Bridget said. “Just like you asked. What is it you want with me?”

Alexius took another step toward her, and so did Blackwall, protectively. “Do you know what you are?” the Magister asked, his voice rising and deepening with emotion. “You walk into my stronghold with your stolen mark, a gift you cannot even begin to comprehend, and you think for even a moment you’re in control? You’re nothing but a mistake.”

Bridget didn’t move. Blackwall wondered if she knew how much courage she had; most people would have fallen back from the malice in the Magister’s face. “Tell me what was supposed to happen.”

“It was to be a triumph for the Elder One, for this world!”

“Father!” Felix cried. “Do you know what you sound like?”

“He sounds exactly like the sort of villainous cliché everyone expects us to be. The kind we laughed at over brandy when our work was done for the day.” The now-familiar Tevinter voice held sorrow as Dorian stepped out from behind a pillar and turned to face the Magister. “Hello, Alexius."

“Dorian.” Alexius turned toward the newcomer, his voice softening. “It isn’t too late for you to be a part of this. You could reconsider. The Elder One has power you would not believe. He will raise the Imperium from its own ashes.”

“The Elder One?” Bridget asked. “Is that who killed the Divine? Is he a mage?”

“He will make the world bow to mages once more. Surely that is what you want?” he asked Bridget.

“I don’t want to be bowed to. I just want to live in peace.”

“Alexius, this is exactly what you and I talked about never wanting to happen!” Dorian shouted. “Why would you support this?”

“Father,” Felix said, “let’s go home. Give up the Venatori, let the southern mages fight the Breach, and let’s go home.”

“No!” Alexius reached for his son, holding his arm tightly. “This is the only way, Felix. He is the only one who can save you!”

Felix sighed wearily. “No one can save me, Father. I’m dying. We both know it.”

“No. He promised. If I undo the mistake at the Temple …”

“I don’t want to live if that’s the cost, Father. Not at the cost of everything that made you a good man. Don’t you understand?”

But Alexius was beyond understanding. He was staring at Bridget with a force of purpose that was deaf to his son’s pleas. “The Elder One demands this woman’s life!”

And then it all seemed to happen at once. Alexius raised some kind of amulet that glowed as green as the mark on Bridget’s hand, Felix shouted “No!” and grabbed for his father, Dorian raised his staff and thrust himself between Bridget and the amulet, something that looked like a rift but wasn’t opened in the middle of the hall … and then Bridget was gone, and Dorian with her.

Blackwall stared at the empty space as if somehow he could bring her back, but it was too late. He had failed to protect her.


	9. Though Darkness Falls

Bridget staggered, putting a hand to her head. She was so dizzy she couldn’t think straight. Where was she? Was this the Circle? Her Harrowing again?

She heard a voice shout “Blood of the Elder One!” and she blinked at the blurry image in front of her, trying to make sense of it and of what it had said. 

Someone else said, impatiently, and in a more familiar voice, “Don’t just stand there! Strike them down!” and a blast of icy cold air shot past her, the frosty droplets grazing her cheek, and hit the blurry thing.

Slowly her head was clearing, her memory returning. Redcliffe. Alexius. The amulet. She shook her head violently, recognizing Dorian, and seeing an armored man closing in on him. She reached for her staff, but there was no time. Instead she tried to call down the lightning. She didn’t manage much more than a bright light, but it was distraction enough for Dorian to finish the man off.

He looked at her, frowning. “Don’t tell me. You’re no good at combat magic.”

“All right, I won’t tell you.”

“Naturally. Stuck Maker knows where by Alexius and with only my own skill to count on. It is considerable, mind you, but still …” He studied her. “Perhaps we should give you some pointers.”

“I’ll take whatever you can give me,” she said fervently. “Like any speculations about where we might be.”

“Well, if he was still using the guidelines we had been working from when I studied under him, the rift would have taken us to the closest confluence of arcane energy. But … that was right where we were.” He looked around. They were in a room built of stone, with water standing in pools all around them. “The dungeons? But … what would have been the point of—“ He broke off, staring at the wall. “ _Fasta vas_! It’s not where we are; it’s when.”

“You mean … Alexius moved us through time?” Bridget shivered. No wonder she had felt so disoriented at first. She thought of her people, of Blackwall and Sera and Vivienne. “Would the others in the hall have been drawn through the rift as well?”

“I doubt it. Alexius wouldn’t have wanted to risk catching himself or Felix in it, and they were standing closer to us than your people were.”

Bridget tried to make sense of it all. “So … they’ve lived through … however long it’s been since we left?” 

“Yes. I—hope they fought well.”

“I’m sure they did.” Bridget felt sick. What if they couldn’t get back to where they had been before?

“I suppose it’s some comfort if we imagine having been moved forward in time. Alexius seemed to want to remove you from time completely, so that you would never have been in the Conclave in the first place to disrupt this Elder One’s ritual. Of course, if we have gone backwards in time … that’s probably very bad. Never mind what this could do to the fabric of the world. We didn’t travel through time so much as punch a hole through it and toss it in the privy.”

“You’re a real barrel of laughs, aren’t you?” 

“I’m known to be quite a morose companion,” Dorian agreed. “Just wait until you get to know me.”

“It looks like I’m going to have the chance to get to know you very well, if we’re stuck here together. Here, push on this, will you?” She had managed to get the iron gate holding them in what must be a cell to move just a bit. Dorian joined her, and their combined strength worked on the rusty hinges until the gate opened enough to let them through.

“Do you know who this Elder One is that Alexius mentioned?” Bridget asked, trying not to think about what might be lurking in the puddles of dark water she was walking through.

“Same old tune, I imagine, some magister aspiring to godhood. ‘Let’s play with magic we don’t understand; it will make us incredibly powerful.’ Because that never goes wrong.”

Bridget thought of the Inquisition, and of her people. “What if we can’t get back?”

“I would say we get comfortable in our new present, but that looks difficult to do, so let me suggest that we don’t think about it until we have to.”

“I like that plan. Almost as much as I like the idea of getting out of here.”

They climbed a flight of stairs, and then another. These were clearly dungeons, but they were eerily silent, deserted other than the occasional skeleton behind bars. And the walls were liberally festooned with red lyrium. It seemed to be … growing there. And it sang, something Bridget could almost catch. She found herself stopping to listen for the tune, and shook herself violently. That way lay madness.

In a far corner of the dungeons, a place they found only because they had gotten hopelessly lost, they discovered Fiona. The red lyrium had taken over her body; it was growing out of her. And yet, grotesquely, she was still alive. 

She turned her head wearily to look at them, her eyes blinking slowly. “You’re … alive? But … how? I saw you … disappear.”

“Fiona! Let us get you out of there.”

“No! Don’t … touch it. I … am dead already. They … will mine my corpse … for the red lyrium it contains.”

Dorian asked, “Can you tell us the date?”

Fiona thought hard, or tried to. “Last I knew … was … 9 … 42. Dragon.”

“Forty-two? We’ve missed an entire year.”

“We have to get back in time, fix … this.” Bridget looked at Fiona again. The red lyrium was still singing, and Bridget felt revolted that she found the song compelling, despite what she was seeing.

“Yes. Please … stop this from happening.” Fiona was breathing with difficulty. “Alexius … serves the … Elder One. No one … challenges him … and lives.”

Bridget hadn’t been all that impressed by what she had seen of Fiona, but that didn’t matter in the face of what had been done to the former Grand Enchanter. She felt anger rising in her, hot and choking. “That magister is going to regret he didn’t kill me when he had the chance,” she vowed.

“We must find the amulet Alexius used to send us here,” Dorian said. “I should be able to use it to reopen the rift at the exact spot we left.”

“You can?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. It might also turn us into paste.”

“Better than nothing.”

“You … must … try,” Fiona gasped. “Your spymaster … Leliana … she is here. … Find … her. … Quickly. Before … the Elder One … learns you’re …” Her last words trailed off and her head slumped forward against the red lyrium.

Bridget stared at the body of the former Grand Enchanter. She wanted to mourn, but there was no time for that, not if she was going to prevent it from happening. The whole situation made her feel as though she was going around in circles.

They left Fiona and plunged back into the labyrinth of the dungeons. They were about to take a left turn toward what Bridget was certain were stairs leading up and out when she heard a familiar laugh. It was tinny and strange, but it was unmistakably Sera’s. She tugged Dorian in that direction. Sera and Blackwall were together in a single cell, Blackwall standing stolidly and staring at the wall, Sera alternately singing to herself and laughing.

She jumped when she saw them. “No no no no no no no. Dead. Not real. Dead and gone. They don’t come back.” 

Blackwall slowly turned his head. A red glow surrounded him; even his eyes were red. Sera was the same. Both of them looked wearied and sick and half-starved. Bridget wanted to hug them, but she had to admit she also wanted to back slowly out of the room and then run back to her own time and safety. She was ashamed of herself for even thinking it. 

“Andraste have mercy,” Blackwall whispered. “The dead shuld rest in peace.”

“It’s really me," she assured him, "and I’m definitely not dead.”

“I was there. I saw you fall. Nothing—nothing was left but ash.”

“We went forward in time,” Bridget explained. She looked at both of them; they were too far gone to understand her. “Look,” she said, “we’re going to get you out of here. Does that help?”

“Like I’m going to believe some demon or whatever,” Sera said, sounding more like herself. “The day you died? I ran out of arrows making them pay. Then … nothing mattered anymore.”

“Let’s make them pay again.”

“The Elder One killed the Empress,” Sera told her. “And then invaded. With a demon army. Demons everywhere. Everything is gone—or red. No one makes the Elder One pay.”

Bridget looked the elf straight in her unnatural red eyes. “I am going to make him pay,” she promised. “No matter what.” Anything, to keep this horror from coming true.

“Maybe you are. I want—I want them to hurt. If you’re really here, I’ll frigging die just to spit in their faces.”

“I’m really here,” Bridget said gently.

“Then what are we waiting for?”

Blackwall stared at her, as if lost in a dream. Or a nightmare. 

“Come on,” she said to him. “Let’s go find Alexius. Maybe … maybe we’ll find Vivienne on the way.”

“Not that one,” Sera said. “She was the smart one, didn’t let them catch her. Made them kill her instead. Smart.”

Bridget nodded. That sounded like Vivienne. 

“We’re all going to die anyway,” Blackwall said.

“Not today,” Dorian told him. “Not I.”

Blackwall looked at him, but didn’t speak. With her companions following, Bridget and Dorian returned to trying to make sense of the labyrinth.

At last they made it up the stairs to another level of dungeons. The air was slightly more fresh, at least. And Bridget thought maybe she understood the layout better now.

Dorian turned around to look at their two companions. Both were keeping up better than Bridget had imagined they could, given their emaciation, but neither had yet said a word.

“I don’t suppose either of you know where to find Alexius.”

Blackwall didn’t answer. He had gone somewhere else in his head, Bridget imagined, and seemed to be finding it difficult to come back.

Sera scratched her head with the tip of her bow. “I think … once I heard a guard say he never left the throne room. Maybe?”

“That does sound like Alexius,” Dorian agreed. “The throne room it is, then. if we can find it.”

The red lyrium was less prevalent on this floor of the dungeons, and Bridget could hear something else over the song of the lyrium, finally—a voice.

“How did Trevelyan know of the sacrifice at the Temple?”

Bridget couldn’t hear an answer, just a cry of pain. She moved faster in the direction the voice had come from. 

“There’s no use to this defiance, little bird. There is no one else left for you to protect!”

Now Bridget did hear an answering voice. Leliana. “You’re wasting your breath.” And then another cry of pain. 

“Quickly,” Bridget urged Dorian. “Leliana. She’s in there.”

“Leliana?” Blackwall asked. “Alive?”

“Takes a lot of killing, the nightingale,” Sera said. “Caw caw!”

Bridget shoved the door open. Leliana hung there in chains, and in front of her stood a man with a knife, ready to begin making cuts in her flesh. Leliana’s clothes hung in tatters, her skin was scarred everywhere, her eyes sunken in her face.

“You will break,” the man promised her.

“I will die first,” she told him, matter-of-factly. Over his head, her eyes met Bridget’s. There was no surprise in Leliana’s face; just satisfaction. “Or you will.” With some remnant of strength, she hauled herself up in her chains, wrapped her legs around her torturer’s neck, and snapped it. He fell to the floor.

Bridget rifled through his clothes until she found keys that looked like they might fit Leliana’s shackles, and got busy setting her former spymaster free. 

“You’re alive.”

“Alexius sent us into the future. This—his victory, the Elder One—it was never meant to be.”

“We need to find Alexius and reverse the spell,” Dorian said. “If we can get back to when we left, we can prevent this future from ever happening.”

Leliana looked at Bridget, then at Dorian, and then, her face slightly softer, over their shoulders at Blackwall and Sera. “You talk of this as if it is only pretend, some future you hope will never exist. I suffered. The world suffered. It was real.” As she spoke, she looked to Bridget like one of her own birds, her bones sharp and defined in her face, her nose like a beak. It was a frightening image; but Leliana had survived, in the face of a year’s worth of who knew what kind of torture. Bridget felt a new appreciation for the woman who had been the Left Hand of the Divine. She hoped someday to have a chance to get back to Haven and tell Leliana—the real Leliana, of her present—as much.

As they made their way out of the dungeons, Dorian asked, “What happened? Exactly.”

Leliana cast him a withering glare.

“I’m just trying to understand.”

“No, you are talking to fill the silence. Nothing happened that you want to hear.”

Finally they reached the main floor of the castle. The windows were filthy, a dingy, greenish light coming through them. Bridget looked more closely, and she gasped. “Maker, look at it. The Breach!”

It had grown to fill the whole sky.

Dorian said some things in Tevinter that sounded unpleasant. Blackwall stared stolidly out at the green sky. Sera gave a keening cry as she looked at it. “It wasn’t this bad, last time I saw it. it’s … grown.”

“Yes.” Leliana said. She didn’t bother to look. “Let’s keep going.”

Dorian caught up with her again. “At least … do you know what happened to Felix?”

“Yes. I know.”

“Are you going to tell me?” 

Leliana moved faster, leaving him behind. “You’ll find out. Soon enough.”

At last they found the throne room. This whole day—half a day? Couple of hours? It felt like forever to Bridget. She was exhausted to the point of wanting to lie down on the stones and sleep, weary of trying to ignore the song of the red lyrium, dry-mouthed and starving, but she wouldn’t have eaten or drunk anything in this time if it was the difference between taking another step or not. By the time she stumbled into the throne room, she was as close to the end of her rope as she had ever been, and only knowing that Blackwall, Sera, and Leliana had been through unimaginably more and they were still on their feet kept her moving.

Alexius was standing in front of the fireplace, staring into it. Near him crouched a pale creature that closer inspection revealed to be Felix. His mouth was open, drool running out of it and pooling on the floor.

“Felix,” Dorian said, in a voice so soft it was almost a moan. “No.”

At the voice, Alexius turned toward them. “I knew you would appear again,” he said slowly. He looked bent and old and worn, as if victory had been nearly as difficult as defeat. “I didn’t know where, or when, but I knew I hadn’t destroyed you. My final failure,” he whispered.

“Was it worth it?” Dorian asked sharply. “Everything you did to the world? To yourself?” He gestured at Felix. “To him?”

“It was all for him,” Alexius cried.

“And this was what you saved him for? You call that living?”

“I don’t call it death.” Alexius shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. Not now. Now all we can do is wait for the end.”

“What do you mean? What’s ending?” Bridget asked.

Alexius laughed bitterly. “The irony that you should appear now, of all possible moments. All that I fought for, all that I betrayed, and what have I wrought?” He reached down and touched Felix’s cheek. Felix didn’t react, as if he didn’t even feel the touch. Alexius turned away. “Ruin and death. There is nothing else. The Elder One comes: for you, for me, for all of us.”

Then Felix suddenly rose to his feet. Everyone turned to look at him, seeing Leliana standing behind him, holding him up, a knife at his throat.

“No! Felix!” Alexius stepped toward them but stopped when Leliana pressed more closely with the knife. “Please, don’t hurt my son. I’ll do anything you ask.”

“Hand over the amulet,” Bridget said.

“Let him go, and I swear, you’ll get anything you want.”

Leliana looked at him. “I want the world back.” And she struck, the knife making a jagged hole in Felix’s neck. He fell to the floor without a sound.

“No!” Alexius went to his knees next to his son’s body. 

Leliana pointed the knife in his direction. “The amulet, or you will join him.”

“What if that’s what I want?”

“If that’s what you wanted, you would have let him die a long time ago rather than force him to live in that … horror,” Dorian said. He came closer, rifling through Alexius’s robes. “You didn’t even have the courage to let him die.” And then in a quick, decisive movement, he snapped the magister’s neck.

Bridget looked at him, knowing how difficult it must have been to see his former mentor reduced to such a low. “I’m sorry.”

Dorian laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. “Once he was a man to whom I compared all others. All those lies he told himself, the justifications … it was never for Felix, not really. It was about him, all the time. He lost Felix long ago and didn’t even notice. Sad, isn’t it?”

“There is no time for this sentiment,” Leliana hissed. “You must perform the ritual to send you both back to the time you came from.”

Dorian turned the amulet over in his hands. “It could take some time.”

“Time is a luxury you do not have.”

Bridget became aware of sounds from outside the room—groans and shouts and the clanking of a large army on the move.

Sera’s head turned toward the door. “There’s a reason they won.”

Blackwall looked at her, and she at him, and they nodded to one another. Blackwall turned, then, to look at Bridget, and she thought he might say something, but then he broke the look and he and Sera left the throne room, to face down the approaching army alone. For her. She wanted to weep, but she knew she didn’t have that luxury. She might not have it again, not until this Elder One was dead. And that was her task now; hers before anyone else’s. She couldn’t put it down any more than she could scrub the mark off her hand.

“Work quickly,” she said to Dorian. Something of what she was feeling must have shown itself in her voice or her look, because he didn’t argue, he just nodded and got to work, his focus complete.

Leliana came toward her. “Look at me; at them.” She gestured with her head to the door Sera and Blackwall had gone through. “We are already dead. The only way we live is if this day never comes. If you get back—“

“I will stop it,” Bridget said. “You have my word. Whatever comes.”

“It is enough.” Leliana nodded, as if satisfied. To Dorian she said, “Cast your spell. You have as much time as I have arrows.”

He didn’t even register the comment, his head bent over the amulet as he murmured.

It didn’t take long before the sounds of fighting came closer, as if they were in the next room. Bridget tried not to think of Sera and Blackwall fighting, dying, out there, alone. She couldn’t think of that, because if she did she would have to go out there, have to make her stand with them, and she knew how foolish that would be—she just couldn’t seem to feel it in her heart.

Leliana stood in the middle of the room with an arrow nocked. “Though darkness closes, I am shielded by flame,” she recited, the words charged with meaning as Bridget had never heard the Chant before. 

A tremendous thud outside, and the doors flew open, demons and Venatori fighters coming through. Bridget tried not to imagine Blackwall dead, dismembered, broken … it wasn’t him, she told herself. Not really. But it was hard to retain her focus as the demons closed in on Leliana, who sent arrow after arrow flying toward them. Not one missed, but there weren’t enough. There had never been enough.

“Andraste guide me,” Leliana said. “Maker, take me to your side.”

An arrow struck her in the chest and she staggered, but she held her stance and continued firing, the flight of the arrows a bit more off-kilter. 

Bridget started to move toward her, but Dorian caught her arm. “You move, and we all die!”

She repeated that to herself, over and over again, while she watched the mob swarming Leliana. At last Dorian said “Now!” and without allowing herself to stop to think for a moment, Bridget turned and plunged into the green swirl of the rift in time he had created. Wherever she ended up, it had to be better than what she was leaving.

And suddenly they were back where they had started, Alexius looking at them in expectant triumph. Bridget felt sick, and weary, and hungry, and exhausted, and dizzy, but she fought them all. She had to be strong just a little longer. Just as Leliana had been. As Sera and Blackwall had been. She glanced at them, to be sure they were there, and still themselves. Both were looking at her, puzzled, not sure what had happened. 

But she could see the moment dawn when Alexius knew what had happened, and the blood drained from his face.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” Dorian told him.

Alexius fell to his knees, suddenly old and defeated, as he had been in the future.

“Put aside all claim to Redcliffe, and we let you live,” Bridget told him.

He laughed. “Do you think the Elder One will let me live, now that I have failed him? Failed you,” he said, his eyes moving to find Felix. “He would have saved you.” 

Tears stood in Felix’s eyes. “No one can save me, Father. I’m dying. I wish … I wish you hadn’t tried.” 

“Well, I’m glad that’s over with,” Dorian said.

“What of us?” Fiona asked, stepping forward. “When Alis—when the King finds out what we have done here …”

“Perhaps you should have thought of that before, my dear,” Vivienne told her sharply.

Bridget quite agreed. “Fiona, you have bungled this thoroughly. I don’t know why, but from this point forth, I can no longer have you speaking for the mages.”

“Yes. I understand. But … my people. They cannot stay here, not now.”

“No. That they can’t.” They were all looking at her now. Bridget remembered what she had felt, in the future, that this was her task. At the time, she had been thinking of fighting, which was a simple, straightforward thing to do. But managing the mages, making the decisions, being willing to step forward and take the risk of being wrong, that, too, was part of her task, and she had to begin now, despite her weariness and her hunger and her distress over what she had seen. “We came here for mages to close the Breach, and we are leaving here with mages to close the Breach.”

“And our status?” Fiona asked.

“Hopefully better than what Alexius offered. The Inquisition is better than that, yes?” Dorian asked, his voice and look a challenge.

“Think carefully,” Vivienne urged. “Look at what they did with their freedom when they had it.”

“Yes,” Bridget told her, “and look at what we have done with ours. They deserve a chance to decide for themselves, not to have their lives signed away by yet another person who claims to speak for what’s best for them.” She tried not to look at Fiona as she said it. “For now, the mages will be considered our allies, fighting at the side of the Inquisition.”

Vivienne sighed. “I hope you do not live to regret this, my dear.”

Bridget hoped so, too. She didn’t even want to think about what Cullen and Cassandra’s reaction would be. “The Breach threatens all of Thedas,” she said. “Maybe it will take all of Thedas working together to fight it.”


	10. The Mage Dilemma

Scout Harding, appearing once the gates of Redcliffe were open again, tried to convince Bridget to stay in the village overnight, get some sleep before returning to Haven—but Bridget never wanted to see Redcliffe again. She knew that the sight of the walls red with the creeping growth of the lyrium, the memory of Fiona with the lyrium growing out of her body, would haunt her dreams for a long time to come.

Her companions seemed to agree; none of them so much as murmured when she told them she wanted to go straight home.

Blackwall hung back a bit, as if he didn’t want to intrude his presence on her, and she was grateful for his quiet support. Sera went on ahead, bow at the ready, with a promise to take down a rabbit if she could spot one, so they could stop for a hot meal on the way back.

Dorian and Vivienne walked with Bridget, and she was grateful for both of them. 

“What will you tell the Commander, my dear? He will not be pleased.”

Bridget imagined not. “I don’t know. Hopefully I’ll think of something. What else could I do?” she asked. “The mages deserve a chance, and they haven’t had one yet. Fiona made this huge, horrible mistake on their behalf, and look where she took them.” She sighed wearily. “People like to talk of mages as if we’re all the same, the same people, with the same wants and desires, but look at the three of us—we’re all mages, and we don’t even all agree on whether mages are safe or not.”

“With that Breach in the sky, bringing demons out into our world?” Vivienne shook her head. “We need to be prepared; abominations are inevitable. And there are not enough Templars in the Inquisition to handle incidents.”

“Perhaps you could train some of your rank and file with Templar skills?” Dorian suggested.

“That’s not a bad idea,” Bridget said. 

“And of course, we’ll need to close the Breach.” 

Vivienne nodded. “There has never been a greater threat to mages than that offered by the Breach. Until it is closed, no one is safe.”

Bridget agreed with both of them, she really did. But having just fought her way through one nightmare, she couldn’t contemplate having the strength to fight another. Not right now, at any rate.

“Tell me something, my dear,” Vivienne said conversationally. “As you appear poised to have a hand in shaping it, what future do you see for mages?”

“What future do I see?” Bridget echoed, staring at the other woman. “I have just come from the future, Vivienne. It was a disaster. Corypheus and his red lyrium had taken over the world. So for now, the future I see, the one I’m working toward, is one where a demon army doesn’t destroy everything we all know and love. Is that all right with you?”

Vivienne opened her mouth, then shut it again, giving a small, gracious nod. “Of course, my dear. It was an ill-timed question. My apologies.”

“Madame Vivienne, perhaps you can tell me—I have always been fascinated by the White Chantry. What is the Grand Cathedral like in the fall?” Dorian smiled. “For that matter, what is fall like? I have never experienced one.” He drew her forward. Vivienne seemed to understand that she was being ushered away, but she went along without protest.

Bridget fell back to walk with Blackwall. She felt an inexplicable urge to rest her head on his shoulder and close her eyes. Was it because she felt that he would fight off anything that came for her while she slept? She trusted him to stay awake, at least, which was more than she could say for herself at the moment.

He looked at her gravely, seeing the weariness in her blue eyes, and the dark smudges beneath them. “There was never going to be an easy solution to the mage dilemma, you know that,” he told her.

She gave a faint smile. “No. There wasn’t. I hope the others understand.”

“They sent a mage to solve the problem. What else would they expect?” He looked at her for a moment, then said, “What you did took courage. You gave them a chance. Everyone deserves one.” At that he looked away, biting his lip. Did everyone deserve a chance? He wasn’t so sure. He didn’t, or so he would have said just a few weeks ago. Now, though, standing here next to her … well, he wanted another chance, but he still didn’t think he deserved one.

Bridget lifted her hands and rubbed her eyes, and Blackwall told himself he should stop talking, but he couldn’t help himself. “Tell me, what was I like in the dark future you saw?”

She turned those blue eyes on him, and he saw a darkness there, a fear, that made him want to pull her close and tuck her head against his chest and promise her that he would keep her safe. He moved a few steps away from her, because he had no right to offer her any of that. No right at all.

“To tell the truth, you didn’t seem much different. You—you sacrificed yourself for the greater good.” 

“Did I?” he asked in genuine surprise. 

“You don’t see yourself as that kind of man?”

“Not often, no.”

“Well, you are. At least … that’s what I see.” There was a shyness in her eyes now, a faint color on her cheeks, and he wanted—more than he should want.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

Conversation slowed to a halt as they kept moving, everyone too weary to do more than put one foot in front of the other. Eventually, too tired to go on, Bridget called a halt, and they rolled wearily into bedrolls, waking with the first light of dawn to breakfast on Sera’s rabbit and climb the rest of the way to Haven. 

The news had preceded them, and Bridget could hear the whispers as she passed. The rest and the mountain air had refreshed her a bit. She wasn’t sure she was ready to face the three heads of the Inquisition, but that was the kind of potion that would boil over if she didn’t take it off the fire right away, so she marched straight to the Chantry. 

They were in the middle of an argument when she walked in. Cullen was shouting, “It’s not a matter for debate! There will be abominations among the mages, and we must be prepared.”

“If we rescind the offer of an alliance, it makes the Inquisition appear incompetent at best, tyrannical at worst,” Josephine told him, looking worried.

“We’re not going to rescind the offer,” Bridget said firmly, and they all turned to look at her.

“What were you thinking?” Cullen snapped. “Mages loose with no oversight? The Veil has been torn open!”

“What better test of our ability to live in the world like normal people?” Bridget asked him coolly, stressing the “our” to remind him that he spoke to a mage. “If we can’t handle it, now is the time to find out.”

“And how many lives will be lost if they—you—fail? With the Veil broken, the threat of possession—“

Cullen’s words were cut off by a growl from Cassandra. “Enough arguing. None of us were there. We cannot afford to second-guess our people.” She gave a nod to Bridget, who was stunned by the show of support from that quarter. She would have thought Cassandra would be furious at the decision. “The sole point of Bridget’s mission,” Cassandra went on, “was to gain the mages’ aid, and she has done that. And saved them from enslavement by the Tevinters, and removed a Tevinter threat from Ferelden that no one else seemed to be aware of.” She gave Bridget a small smile. “You had quite the busy day.”

“Exhausting,” Bridget said, meaning it.

From behind her, Bridget heard the cultured voice of Dorian, “Ah, the voice of pragmatism speaks. And here I was just starting to enjoy the dizzying whirl of the circular arguments.”

The others turned to look at him. Cassandra frowned. “Closing the Breach is all that matters.”

“Perhaps. There was something about a demon army, however. Might we want to think about that?” Dorian came closer, his head cocked to the side inquisitively.

“You know better than anyone the consequences if we don’t close the Breach,” Bridget told him. “One step at a time.”

“Of course. How foolish of me to get ahead of myself.”

Leliana spoke up for the first time, and Bridget couldn’t repress a shivver when she looked at her spymaster, seeing the cruel bird’s visage Leliana’s face had become after a year of torture. “You leave the details of what you saw in that future to me,” the spymaster said. “I am also concerned about the suggestion that this Elder One intends to assassinate Empress Celene. Turmoil in Orlais could have grave consequences for all of us.”

“Orlais falls, the Imperium rises. Chaos for everyone!” Dorian shook his head. “Sounds like the grandiose and impulsive planning of a Tevinter cult.”

Cullen frowned at them all. “One battle at a time, please. First, we must organize our troops and the mage recruits. And then we should meet in the War Room to make our plans.” He looked at Bridget, really looked at her, for what might have been the first time. “Will you join us?”

“In the War Room?”

“Naturally. It was your leadership that brought us the mages, and it will be your mark that closes the Breach. You have as much right as anyone. More.”

“Thank you. I will be honored to assist.” Bridget yawned widely. “Tomorrow?”

Cullen nodded. “You’ve earned a rest, Herald.” He smiled, suddenly looking very young. “I hope the rest of the Inquisition is willing to let you have one.”

“As do I,” Dorian said. As the others drifted off to their own tasks, he came closer. “I find seeing the Breach more closely has given me an intense desire to get rid of it.”

“It has that effect,” Bridget agreed. “Does that mean you’ll stay and help close it?”

“Oh, of course. The South is so charming and rustic—I just adore it to little pieces.”

“You don’t want to go home?”

“Eventually, yes,” Dorian said. “But we both saw what the future can be if we don’t succeed here, what this Elder One and his cult are trying to do. It could be that if I don’t stay and help, I won’t have a home to return to. Besides—if a Tevinter cult is going to try to destroy the world, it makes sense that a Tevinter should be part of stopping it.” A rare moment of genuine grief passed across his face. “I want the world to see that some of us are opposed to this sort of madness, and are willing to stand up against it.” He looked Bridget square in the eyes. “I stand with you. That future will not come to pass.”

Bridget smiled. “There’s no one I’d rather be stranded in time with—future or present.” She’d come to trust him in their time in the future, and she was glad to have him at her side.

He returned the smile. “Perhaps we could skip the ‘stranded’ part.”

They walked out of the Chantry together, to the tune of more whispers.

“What do you think they find so shocking? The presence of a heathen Tevinter? Or the Inquisition supporting the free mages?” Dorian chuckled. “What’s next, after all? Elves running Halamshiral? Cows milking farmers?”

“Tevinter at peace with the rest of Thedas?” 

“Oh, now, don’t get carried away. Let’s remain within the realm of possibility, shall we?” There was a genuine regret beneath Dorian’s façade, and Bridget let the subject drop. “Have you given any thought to what this support will do—for mages in general, across Thedas?”

“I have to say I haven’t. At the time, all I was really thinking was getting them away from Fiona and giving them a real chance—and us a chance to close the Breach.” Bridget shook her head. “What was she thinking?”

“Well, not to perpetuate a stereotype, but blood magic has been known to confuse people and cause them to act against their own best interests.”

“I suppose.”

“Meanwhile, you’ve given Southern mages license to … well, be like me.” He grinned.

“We should all be so fabulous.”

“Yes. You absolutely should.”

Over his shoulder, Bridget saw Solas. She wanted to know what the elf thought of the day’s events. “Dorian, have they given you a place to sleep yet? You’re all squared away?”

“I am.”

“Good. Then I will see you later, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

Solas smiled at her as she came toward him. “So we have gained the mages. Excellent. I knew you would prevail.”

“You knew more than I did.”

He shrugged, as if to indicate that wasn’t a surprise. “I am interested by the rumor that you traveled forward in time.”

Bridget shuddered. “No rumor. I really did.”

“It wasn’t a trick of the Fade?”

“No. No tricks, no blood magic. I was in the future. And it was … horrible.”

“In that case, it is more vital than ever that the Inquisition succeed.”

“But no pressure.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing. You’re right, of course. So many were dead; more had been corrupted. Knowing what will happen if we fail …”

“I suggest we do not do so. You should ready yourself for this Elder One.” Solas looked at her even more seriously than was his wont. “You have interfered with his plans twice now—at the Temple of Sacred Ashes and now in Redcliffe.” 

“I imagine he’s rather upset with me.” 

“To put it mildly. Would you like another lesson?”

Bridget shook her head. “Not right now, Solas, but thank you. I’m too tired to focus.”

“I understand. Get some rest, Herald of Andraste.”

“I’ll do my best.”

In the tavern, where she went for the midday meal, she found Varric, who perked up endearingly when he saw her come in. “Sunflower! Pull up a chair!”

“I don’t mind if I do.” She signaled to Flissa at the bar for a plate of the day’s stew and a tankard of cider, then leaned back in her chair and smiled at Varric. “It’s good to be back.”

“Good to have you back. Hail the conquering hero!” He toasted her with his own mug. “Bringing the mage rebellion into the Inquisition—now there’s a twist I didn’t see coming.” He studied her thoughtfully for a moment. “Although I probably should have. It’s all true, the news Nightingale’s raven brought back? Time travel and red lyrium and all of it?”

Bridget nodded. “All true.” She gave Flissa an abstracted thank you for the food and drink as the barkeeper laid it on the table. “And terrifying.”

“Yeah, I can see that. I wasn’t even there, and I’m terrified. Red lyrium in Ferelden? Growing out of people’s bodies? That’s bad with a capital B. Finding it there really punches a hole in my ‘red lyrium at the Temple was a coincidence’ theory. And I liked that theory.”

“It’s not your fault if red lyrium is spreading.”

“You think not? After I was the one to find that idol in the Deep Roads? Thedas had never heard of red lyrium before that.”

“You can’t know that.” Bridget took a bite of stew. “Do you know how long it takes for red lyrium to grow?”

“I didn’t even know it does grow. I mean, it took years for it to infect Knight-Commander Meredith … although, as far as I know, she wasn’t actually ingesting the stuff. My brother—“ He stopped and looked down at the table, getting himself under control. “My brother may have eaten some, I don’t know, but it wasn’t growing out of him.”

Bridget smiled, putting a hand on his. “Let’s stick with the red lyrium as a coincidence theory. Easier to get to sleep at night that way.”

Varric sighed, shaking his head. “Honestly, I think sleep is a thing of the past. I’m going to put out some feelers, get some people trying to find out where the red stuff came from. I think I’ll make that a priority.”

“Good idea. Any part of that future we can stop is a step toward keeping it from coming true.” Bridget could feel the images of the future beating at the back of her brain, and she rubbed her hands over her eyes to try to stave them off. 

Varric smiled at her. “Never mind all the doom and gloom. You just won a big victory for the Inquisition—I think you should celebrate.”

“Yes, I had big plans—put my feet up, maybe take a nap. Neither of which seems all that likely at the moment. People to see, things to do.”

“That’s the problem with you heroes. You never know when to take a moment for yourself.” Varric looked at her thoughtfully.

“What are you thinking?” Bridget asked, not sure she liked that speculative look.

“Oh, nothing. Nothing at all.” He got up. “I’ll leave you to eat in peace.”

She addressed the plate of stew, wondering what he had up his sleeve.

Matters of practicality kept Bridget busy the rest of the afternoon, going over equipment with Harritt and welcoming Horsemaster Dennet to the Inquisition—and naturally spending a fair amount of time admiring his horses. She’d never spent much time around animals, but Dennet spoke to his horses with such affection, almost as if they were human, so Bridget found herself speaking to them that way as well, and found them surprisingly intelligent.

The Iron Bull’s tent was near the campground, and she wandered over to say hello.

“I hear that Vint guy sent you into the future.”

“Yes. Not my idea of a good time.”

He grinned. “I suppose it depends on the future you land in.”

“I’d have preferred one that was slightly cleaner, and in which the whole world wasn’t overrun by demons.”

“Yeah. I’d go with one like that myself.”

Bridget sighed. “Every time I think I understand magic, the rules change.” She looked down at her hand. “It’s … difficult not to know what I’m truly capable of.”

The Iron Bull shrugged. “Most people don’t, and they get through okay. You think our new friends have what it takes to close the Breach?” He grunted. “Damn thing gives me a headache just looking at it.”

“Me, too.” Bridget glanced at it over her shoulder, her left hand instinctively closing around the mark. The light was waning, the day coming to an end, and that reminded her there was one person she had yet to talk to today, little as she wanted to. She left the Iron Bull’s tent and inside the stockade, she cautiously approached Leliana’s.

The spymaster looked up as she approached, her beautiful sharp features not changing their expression. “Your support for the mages likely earned you enemies.”

“What did they expect me to do? I’m a mage!” 

“I doubt they considered that when thinking of what you might do.”

“But you did.”

“Yes. I am not surprised. I hope very much that your venture proves fruitful—I would like to see the mages prove that they are able to govern themselves. In the meantime,” Leliana said crisply, “our agents will monitor the situation.”

“And I will continue trying to close the Breach,” Bridget said. “Let people hate me if they wish—as long as they stay out of my way.”

Leliana laughed, a tinkling, musical laugh. “You would not have said that when I met you. The Inquisition has changed you already.”

“Yes, it has.”

The smile was gone from the spymaster’s face as quickly as it had come. “But do not forget that the Inquisition is young—we will need to build our support. While I applaud you for your courage, be wary of your words and how they will affect those who hear them.”

Brdiget looked at the spymaster, seeing again the aged, pain-sharpened predatory bird in her face. “In Redcliffe, I watched you die for me. You didn’t give it a second thought. You stood and fought off countless demons and Venatori so that I could return here.”

Leliana seemed unmoved by this news. “No doubt I would do so again. What is one small life in exchange for a second chance at history?” She gave a small smile. “I always loved a bargain.”

“Nonetheless—I won’t forget your noble sacrifice. I hope … I hope whatever future I can help procure will be worthy of it.”

“I hope so, too.” Leliana glanced down at the papers in front of her significantly, and Bridget got the hint.

“Well, I’ll take my leave. I just … wanted to say … thank you.”

Leliana nodded gravely, and Bridget left her tent, wondering if she would ever be able to crack the other woman’s hard surface.

Somehow, she wasn’t surprised to find Blackwall waiting for her as she came out. His features were hard to make out in the darkness, but the warmth in his voice comforted her. “I wanted to make sure you got back to your hut safely … and that you went back at all. After what you’ve been through, you need your rest.”

“So they tell me.”

“They’re not wrong.” They walked together, companionably, not hurrying. “What future do you see, for mages?”

“I hope the same future as everyone else. We’re just people, after all. We have a right to live our lives, pursue a livelihood … raise our children.” The locket hung heavily around her neck. If only freedom had come a few years earlier … For the first time, it occurred to her to wonder if Mykal was among the mages. She hadn’t heard of him in years, not since he was sent away from the Ostwick Circle after her pregnancy had been discovered. She couldn’t say that she missed him; it had hardly been a great love that they had shared. Just a pastime, really.

“In the Grey Wardens, mages are treated as brothers and sisters, like everyone else,” Blackwall said.

Bridget smiled at him. “Should I become a Warden, then?”

He stopped and looked at her. “I think you are exactly where you belong.”

“Thank you. I … think you are, too.”

“Do you?” In the light from the window of a neighboring hut, she thought she saw him smile. “That’s nice to hear. Good night, Bridget.”

“Good night, Blackwall.”


	11. Choices

Bridget arrived in the War Room the next morning before anyone other than Leliana. The spymaster stood with her arms braced on the War Table, staring at the various pieces placed there.

“Are they talking to you?” Bridget asked.

“If only they would.” Leliana frowned, straightening. “I have been speaking to Blackwall.”

For some reason, Bridget expected the next words to have something to do with Blackwall and herself. She blushed.

Leliana went on without remarking on the blush, instead saying, “He appears to know nothing about the disappearance of the Grey Wardens, which is … disappointing.”

“Ah. Yes, it is,” Bridget agreed. Why had she blushed? She liked Blackwall, but there was nothing special between them. She put it aside as something to think about later—it was hardly a suitable line of thought for the War Room. “Still, it’s good to have a Grey Warden with us.”

“Yes.” Leliana appeared to hesitate, or Bridget thought she did. “He seems to be a good man and his experience will be an asset to the Inquisition.”

“I can continue searching for the other Wardens, if you like, once we’ve closed the Breach,” Bridget offered. “I’m sure Blackwall would like to find out what happened to them, as well.” Although, now that she came to consider it, he hadn’t said anything to that effect, or really expressed any curiosity about the missing Wardens. Well, she hadn’t told him everything about herself, either, Bridget reminded herself. Maybe his concerns went deeper than he liked to discuss.

The others came in, Josephine and Cassandra and Cullen, and Bridget tried to put the strange and yet oddly comforting Grey Warden out of her mind. When they were all standing around the War Table, Cullen began. “I have spoken with the mages; they are ready to approach the Breach when we have our plans made. I only pray this will be enough to close it.”

“I pray we can keep the mages and the Templars from coming to blows first,” Cassandra said.

“Would you both be more confident if I had brought back Templars instead?” Bridget snapped, glaring at them both.

“You have to admit that the mages cause problems the Templars would not have.” Cassandra seemed unperturbed by Bridget’s anger. “The mages have no leadership. Because so many of them have been immured in Circles all their lives, they have few practical skills and no ability to handle their own conflicts. Their demands are endless!”

“Yes, because the Templars would have asked for nothing,” Leliana said, a small smile turning up the corner of her mouth. “They would not have required lyrium, they would not have caused problems for the mages that were already in camp, they would have managed everything by simply fighting everyone who got in their way …” Both Cassandra and Cullen were frowning at her, and the smile widened.

Josephine chimed in, “I agree with Leliana. The problems would have been the same no matter which group we were dealing with. At this point, the people do not trust Templars any more than they trust mages, may I remind you.” 

Bridget sighed. “I agree, the mages have a great deal to learn, and they were not helped by Fiona’s mismanagement of their first taste of freedom. But better they learn here, where we can teach them—the way you have all taught me,” she reminded them, “than running loose in the wild, where they were vulnerable to everything and everyone who had anything but their best interests at heart. They need to get used to what it means to be equal.” She smiled. “A concept I am still struggling with.”

Cassandra looked at Bridget, her face softening. “I do sound like I am blaming you, don’t I? I don’t disapprove, truly. I think you did well. You made the decision when it needed to be made, and you put the best interests of both the mages and the Inquisition at the forefront. There will need to be … adjustments made.”

“Growth is always painful,” Leliana agreed.

Cullen frowned at them. “All of you seem to forget that the Veil has thinned due to the Breach. The mages are uniquely vulnerable to that thinning—you may be concerned about their adjustment to the world outside the Circles, but I am more concerned with ensuring we don’t lose them in a mass possession.” He met Bridget’s eyes squarely and openly. “I do beg your pardon, Bridget, but you are not immune, either.”

“I know that,” she told him. “Every mage’s worst fear—after the Rite of Tranquility—is losing themself to a demon. My magic has been largely theoretical; I was a good student where books were concerned, but uninterested in casting spells, and discouraged from doing so until I got here. I have never heard so much as a whisper from a demon … but that does not mean I have forgotten my lessons in deflecting such a thing. And I am rarely far from someone with a sharp blade and the skill to take me out should I succumb.”

“Your magic is hardly a threat,” Cassandra said, and Bridget had to smile at the other woman’s brutal honesty.

“True enough,” she agreed.

Cullen sighed heavily. “I will not endanger the alliance, but I can’t forget the perils we court with so many mages running loose in the camp. I promise that any precautions taken will be to ensure the safety of both our people and the mages. Nothing more.”

Bridget studied his face, which was almost too open. He looked sincere, but there was something there, a shadow behind his eyes, that made her wonder. Of course, he had been in Kirkwall for the decisive battle between the mages and the Templars, when Knight-Commander Meredith went mad. Perhaps that was all it was.

“Are we ready to go against the Breach?” Josephine asked. Practical as always—she had a knack for cutting through the arguments and getting everyone back on track. No doubt that was one of the skills that made her a good Ambassador.

“Yes,” Cullen said, nodding at Josephine to acknowledge that he had been getting a bit far afield of the topic at hand. “The army is ready, and I have spoken with some representatives from the mages to discuss their role. Thank you for helping them organize themselves,” he said to Josephine. “They told me it was your suggestion to choose a representative from each of the different Circles who have mages here and one from the apostates—er, former apostates—as well.”

“From the Herald’s report, it seemed that their first attempt at organizing themselves went poorly. I wanted to help the second attempt go better, for their sake’s and for the Inquisition in general.”

“Thank you,” Bridget said, smiling warmly at the Antivan. 

“My pleasure.”

“So all that remains is for Bridget to choose which of her companions will accompany her, and we should be ready to begin tomorrow morning. With any luck, by this time two days from now, the Breach will be closed.”

They all looked at one another. Bridget wasn’t sure what the rest of them were thinking, but she was wondering what she would do with herself when the Breach was closed. Would the Inquisition still exist? Would it be her job to take the mages and teach them how to live in the world? She barely knew herself. Would the green mark remain on her hand, or would it disappear with the Breach?

Deep inside her was the worry that the mark would take her with it, that somehow it was her life that powered it, and thus would be removed by the power of the Breach. Could she even close the Breach, did she have that kind of strength? Was tomorrow destined to be her last day? Would tomorrow night see her at the Maker’s side?

“Are we … Is that all we need to discuss?” she asked, her voice shaky, and she saw them all glance at each other and knew they must have some of the same questions she did.

“It is,” Cassandra told her kindly. “Get some rest.”

“Thank you.” Not that she was sure she could, but she would have to try. And in the meantime, if this was the last night she had, she wanted to enjoy it.

She found herself in the tavern, negotiating with Flissa behind the bar for a glass of the finest wine—in Flissa’s far more experienced opinion—available. Bridget took a table by the fire, enjoying the crackle of the flame and the scent of the woodsmoke and the warmth surrounding her, and sipped the wine, a deep rich red that rolled smoothly over the tongue.

Dorian came in, smiling when he saw her, and crossed the room to take the chair next to her. “Wine? I had no idea they served something so civilized. May I?” Without waiting for her response, he put his nose near her glass and sniffed delicately. “Agreggio Pavalli? My dear, you have no idea what nectar you are holding. I must have one. Pardon me.” He got up again, and after an intense conversation with Flissa, returned with the bottle. “Well, things are looking up.” He poured himself a glass and topped off Bridget’s and settled back with a sigh. “One could almost imagine oneself at home.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Yes and no. It does not miss me, however, and I think at this juncture that is the most important thing.” He tilted his head, studying her. “And you, do you miss your Circle? Being locked away like a criminal?”

“It never felt like that to me. I know it did to many of my fellow mages, but my Circle was … like a school, really. It never occurred to most of us to want to leave, and our Templars were kind. Whether they were there for our protection or not, that was what it felt like to us.”

“Indeed. Not the popularly held notion.”

“No, I know it isn’t. And I’m not sure I miss it, not anymore. It was a … safe life, but there was nothing of value in it. Nothing I did was ever going to make a difference in the world. Had I been killed as a child when my magic surfaced, rather than being taken to a Circle, it would have been the same to the rest of the world. Well,” she amended, thinking of Declan, “almost the same.”

“Have you noticed how calmly everyone seems to take the idea of a mage leading the Inquisition?” Dorian asked her. “Most surprising. One would have expected more outrage, more panic. Even your Templar seems to accept you as a human being. Not at all what the popular stories would believe.”

“Leading the Inquisition?” Bridget asked, surprised. “Hardly. I’m a figurehead. An embodiment of this,” she said, raising the hand with the mark on it.

“My dear, surely you are joking. Yours is the name on everyone’s lips, yours the face everyone sees when they think of the Inquisition. And a lovely face it is,” he added, tipping his head in her direction gallantly before taking a long, luxurious swallow of the wine.

“That wasn’t what it was meant to be. What I was meant to be,” Bridget protested.

“And yet, that is what is. You must get used to that.” He smiled. “Or, perhaps, the calm is merely so much window dressing, and the Antivan Crows are swimming in gold from all the contracts on your life.”

“Not as comforting an idea as you might think.” Bridget drank from her wine, savoring the flavor. “Tell me, Dorian, what was your life like, if you grew up outside a Circle?”

“Skeletons in the closet so soon.” He smiled, but there was little humor in it. “Dorian, scion of House Pavus. Product of generations of careful breeding for the strongest, smartest, most magically talented little Pavusling possible. Repository of my House’s hopes and dreams.” There was more warmth in the smile now. “Naturally, I despised it all: the lies, the scheming, the illusions of supremacy.”

“And so you left?”

“Not quite so simple as that, as you might imagine. My family was not entirely happy with some of my … choices, and they made it clear that I was to—unchoose them, if you will. I opted for flight and new surroundings instead."

“So you can’t go home?”

“Oh, no, I certainly could. But not on my terms, and that … is not acceptable.” He put his empty glass down on the table. “If you’ll excuse me, my dear. I find I’m rather tired.”

“Of course.” Left alone, Bridget emptied her own glass. There was still quite a bit left in the bottle, though, and she didn’t want to drink it alone—and there was no one in the tavern she wanted to drink it with. She picked up the bottle and made her way through the crowd. Outside, the freezing wind bit right through her leather coat, and she pulled it more tightly around her, shivering. She declined an invitation to share Varric’s fire and smiled her way through the Chargers, in the midst of their nightly party, before arriving at the little room next to the blacksmith’s that she knew Blackwall had claimed. She hadn’t consciously thought to seek him out, but her steps had brought her here as if led by a beacon, and Bridget had to admit to herself, standing here in the cold with a half full bottle of wine in her hand, her other hand raised to knock, that she was attracted to this quiet, strong, supportive man. She could do a lot worse, if this was her last night, than find out if he was attracted to her in return.

She knocked.  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Blackwall had just been getting ready to go to bed when he heard the knock at the door, and at first his heart stilled, thinking it must be someone coming to tell him he’d been found out, someone coming, at last, looking for Thom Rainier. Then it started beating again as he wondered if anyone out there would truly know Thom Rainier if they saw him; did even he know Thom Rainier anymore? He wasn’t certain he did.

“Yes?” he asked, waiting by the door, wondering who it was looking for him at this time of night.

“Blackwall?” Bridget’s voice, clear and beautiful, came to him through the wood, and his heart thudded heavily. 

He opened the door, frowning. She stood there in the cold holding a bottle of wine, a hesitant expression in her blue eyes. “Bridget? What—“ There was nothing he could ask that didn’t sound wrong, so he left it at that.

“I thought you could use some company. I mean … I could use some company.” She lifted the bottle. “Dorian says this is the best wine Tevinter makes, and I—I don’t want to be alone tonight. Can I come in?”

He shouldn’t allow this, he thought. She was too innocent and too young and too special for him to take advantage of the underlying request she really seemed to be making, and it had been such a long time since he had been with a woman—he had no business letting her in. But even as he thought it, he was stepping aside so she could enter.

Suddenly it occurred to him what had brought her here tonight. “Worried about tomorrow?”

“Yes. I—if I can’t close the Breach, or if—“ She lifted the marked hand, frowning at it. “This could be it, Blackwall.”

“No.”

“You can say that if you like, but it could be. And I—“ She turned to look at him, her blue eyes wide and soft. Then she tilted her head to the side, a little smile playing across her lovely mouth. “You’re oddly charming for a man I found wandering the forest, do you know that?”

He chuckled despite himself. “I’ve always thought myself more odd than charming, but I’ll take a compliment from a lady. They’re hard to come by.”

She smiled wider. “Compliments, or ladies?”

Blackwall laughed, the tension easing. He really did enjoy spending time with her. “Both.”

Bridget took a swallow of wine straight from the bottle and handed it to him. With only a slight hesitation, he lifted it to his lips, drinking deeply. “Agreggio Pavalli? Here in Haven? The Maker has an odd sense of humor.”

She looked at him oddly. “Now where does a Grey Warden find fine Tevinter wine in the wilderness?”

He could have kicked himself for the slip. Thom Rainier had been a connoisseur of fine wine, but Blackwall liked ale and cider and more earthy delicacies. “I wasn’t always a Grey Warden, and I didn’t always live in the wilderness,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t ask for more details. He didn’t know what he would tell her. 

“You’re very modest,” she said. “I’m sure there are many things you know about that you’ve kept to yourself.”

Suddenly suspicious, he asked, “What do you mean?”

“Oh!” Her cheeks turned pink. “Nothing, just that—there’s something so … intelligent about you, so sure of yourself. I think if I … if I had the chance to know you better I would find all sorts of, um, skills and talents.”

He could feel his own cheeks flushing, and he hadn’t had near enough wine for it to be that. “And the praise keeps coming.” Blackwall cleared his throat. “Are you sure there isn’t something large and heavy you need moved?”

Bridget stepped closer to him, reaching for the bottle. Their fingers brushed in the handoff, and Blackwall could feel the tingle of it all the way down to his toes. Without looking away from him, she lifted the bottle to her lips, drinking deeply, and then licking her lips when a droplet of wine threatened to spill down her chin. Watching her pink tongue move over the softness of her lower lip, Blackwall nearly groaned aloud. The room seemed very small, suddenly, very intimate, and very warm. He was aware of the thin undershirt he wore, and the heat of Bridget’s body close to his.

“I think moving heavy objects would be a waste of those skills and talents, don’t you?” she said softly.

He shouldn’t be doing this, he told himself, but it appeared that he wasn’t listening, because he moved even closer, their bodies nearly brushing. “Oh, really? You have a better idea, do you?”

“Many." Her head tilted up, her lips shaping themselves for a kiss, her hand resting in the middle of his chest.

Maker, how he wanted her. A beautiful woman, a smart, brave, determined woman, a woman like none he had ever met before. How she made the noblewomen of Orlais pale in his memory. 

“Blackwall,” she whispered. Her eyes were half-closed. it would be so easy to put his arms around her, to pull her against him and kiss that willing mouth, to bring her to the cot in the corner and touch and taste and kiss—but he couldn’t. He was living a lie. He wasn’t who he claimed to be, and the reality underneath the pretense was sullied beyond cleansing. He had no right to touch any decent woman, much less the one standing before him.

He put his hand over hers, and with an effort of will lifted it away from his chest. Raising it to his mouth, he kissed the tips of her fingers, because he couldn’t help himself. “It’s a tempting offer, my lady.”

“But you’re saying no.” She was watching him, confused. “There’s something you haven’t told me, isn’t there?”

He saw the gleam of gold, the chain around her neck that held the locket. “Have you told me everything?”

Her eyes blinked and fell. “I understand.”

When she would have pulled her hand away, he held it in his, holding her there in front of him, waiting until she lifted those blue eyes to him again. “You’re unlike any woman I’ve ever met. I am … flattered that you would choose to spend tonight with me. I hope … I hope you’ll stay a while, and … talk. I—I enjoy your company.”

“I enjoy yours, too. And—I think I’ll take you up on that offer, if you don’t mind. I really don’t want to be alone tonight, and … I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be.”

“Stay right there,” he told her. Hastily, he arranged some empty crates in front of the fire, with his blanket spread over them, and he led her to the seat. They sat like that, sipping from the wine bottle, talking a little about completely inconsequential things, until she fell asleep with her head on his shoulder, his arm around her holding her up. Blackwall sat like that long into the night, occasionally resting his cheek against her head, wishing he deserved any of this.


	12. For All of Us

Bridget stood in front of the assembled troops with Cullen and Cassandra, glad for their composed and confident presence, because she was so nervous she thought she might be sick at any moment. The amount of wine she had consumed last night hadn’t helped any. She had choked down a biscuit this morning more because of Blackwall’s grave reminder that she would need her strength than out of any semblance of an appetite.

She had awakened stiff and uncomfortable on the bench in his room, thoroughly embarrassed at her actions from last night. But Blackwall, bless him, had acted as though nothing was amiss, as though the Herald of Andraste slept with her head on his shoulder every night. His concerns had been entirely for her—for her comfort, for her good health, for her reputation, that no one should see her leaving his rooms. Harritt, the smith, had, but he had said nothing, merely wished her a good morning and good luck in the battle to come. He hadn’t reminded her of everything that rode on the outcome of that battle, for which Bridget was grateful.

Cullen, on the other hand, had not hesitated to make clear to her what lay before her, and the consequences to everyone should the attempt to close the Breach fail. Bridget had wanted to weep at the enormity of the task, but that would have helped no one, and instead she had taken a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and agreed with Cullen that at all costs, they must get the Breach closed.

Cassandra had taken it as a matter of course that Bridget was ready, which was flattering, but daunting, too.

And now the army was there, lined up, the mages in the back looking nervous, which didn’t help Bridget’s fluttering stomach a bit.

Cullen was walking back and forth in front of the troops, giving them a loudly shouted pep talk, which from the looks of it, wasn’t helping anyone … with the possible exception of Cullen himself.

Raising her voice to be heard, Cassandra said, “Let’s go and face what is ahead, with no further formalities.”

“Hear, hear!” called someone in the middle of the ranks, who sounded suspiciously like Dorian. Bridget stifled a smile, and she heard Blackwall, standing just behind her, give a faint, quickly smothered chuckle.

“By all means,” Cullen said. “You heard the lady, troops! Let’s move out!”

The trip to the Breach seemed to take forever—and no time at all. Bridget clenched and unclenched her fist with the mark, until the muscles in her hand were aching. The mark itched and burned more fiercely the closer they came to the Breach. Bridget could almost have sworn that she heard it sizzling.

“Will you be all right?” Cassandra asked quietly.

“I suppose only the Maker truly knows. I hope so?”

Cassandra nodded. “As do I. For my part, I will do my best to keep you safe, whatever is to come.”

“Thank you.”

Solas looked over at Bridget gravely, but he didn’t speak. 

The Breach was relatively quiet when they reached it, other than some spikes of green light stabbing out from it intermittently. Bridget stood underneath it, looking up, wondering if she would actually be able to close it, and if she would survive if she could.

Behind her, Cullen was arranging the mages in a long line. Dorian was with him, helping to reassure the nervous ones, although his Tevinter accent was almost as disturbing to many as Cullen’s Templar bearing and intonation. 

“Now,” Cullen shouted, “when the Herald begins, you are to focus on the Breach. Focus past the Herald, let her will draw from you.”

“You are the power, she is the staff!” Dorian added.

They were the power, she was the staff. Again, Bridget felt the weight of what she was expected to do. She wanted to turn and ask if they knew that she was no one, merely a minor noble’s daughter, exiled to the Ostwick Circle for most of her life, taught little that was of any use, unable to be a daughter or a sister or a mother properly. Did they know that this was the first time in her life anyone had ever counted on her?

“It would not help if they knew your concerns and your misgivings,” Solas told her softly. “It would, indeed, do a great deal of damage to their hopes and their will. That we know of your doubts is enough, and we are still here, supporting you. Keep that in mind.”

“I will. Thank you.” Instinctively, she looked at Blackwall, who nodded. His stalwart support warmed her.

“Are we ready?” Bridget called to Cullen. He surveyed the mages, and then called back in the affirmative.

“Then let’s begin,” Cassandra said crisply.

Bridget accordingly raised her arm, opening her left hand and feeling the tug and pull of the Breach against it. It hurt, almost burning, as the Breach and the mark clashed against one another. Bridget clenched her teeth, trying not to cry out. 

“Now!” Cullen shouted, and suddenly she could feel the energy surrounding her, the other mages’ power buoying her up, and she reached higher than she had known she could reach, crying out in pain and anger and determination, drawing against the Breach with all her own strength and all the combined strength of the mages behind her. 

It seemed to take forever. Bridget had nearly forgotten what it was like to do anything but stand here and scream and fight the Breach.

Then, suddenly, the green light turned white and a mighty convulsion rocked the area, sending everyone flying backward. Her ears ringing, Bridget got to her knees, panting as she fought to catch her breath. There was a buzzing in her head, and she was too dizzy to stand. She could barely lift her head to see if it had worked. 

Then she felt surprisingly gentle hands on her shoulders. Bridget looked up to see Cassandra’s face near her own. She couldn’t speak, so she asked the question with her eyes.

“Yes,” Cassandra said softly. “You did it.” She helped Bridget to her feet, steadying her as she swayed.

Bridget looked up to see that the Breach was, indeed, closed, merely a scar in the sky. “Maker be praised.”

“Maker be praised indeed,” Cassandra echoed, and behind them Bridget could hear the words repeated, louder and louder, rolling across the crowd of mages and soldiers. She turned around, smiling at them all, and they cheered her.

It was the most wonderful moment of Bridget’s entire life, knowing that she had stood up under the pressure and accomplished something so important and so necessary to the world.

Slowly they made their way back to Haven, the group’s spirits rising as they grew closer. There was music playing as they reached the camp, and Flissa and some others were setting out food and drink on long tables.

When those who had stayed behind saw Bridget, they cheered as well. From the triumph she had felt underneath the closed Breach, now she had come to feel shy under all the eyes on her, all the scrutiny. 

“These are your accolades,” Solas told her. “For their sake, you must accept them, even when you would rather not do so.”

“I’ll try.” Bridget lifted her chin and smiled and waved her left hand. Only now did she think to look to see if the mark was still there. She held it open in front of her, staring at the palm, where the green light still flashed. Why was it still there? Had the Breach not taken it when it closed? Did it have some further purpose? A chill worked its way through her, taking with it the joy that had followed the closing of the Breach. If the mark was still there … perhaps there was more left. Closing the Breach, after all, got them no closer to determining who had opened it in the first place.

But she wouldn’t take away the happiness she felt surging through Haven. Let them celebrate—let them dance and drink and laugh. There had been few enough occasions for such revelry since the Conclave.

Bridget smiled at those she passed, offering pleasantries and thank yous and appreciative acknowledgement of all the kind words sent her way. But she didn’t stop, not even when Varric tried to call her over to share a flask, or the Iron Bull beckoned from the nest of tents where he and the Chargers were emptying kegs at an almost frightening pace.

Instead, she found herself with Leliana and Cassandra, looking over the camp, watching the dancing. Taken by itself, it was a lovely sight. Elves and dwarves and humans, mages and ex-Templars and the common people all mingling together, laughing and enjoying themselves with no sign of suspicion or distrust. 

She said as much to Leliana, who nodded. “We have already done much. May we be granted the grace of time to do more.”

“You feel it, too?” Bridget asked, feeling that chilling foreboding in her spine again.

“Yes. Something … there is more to come.”

“Solas has confirmed that the heavens are scarred but calm,” Cassandra offered. “The Breach, at least, is sealed. Isn’t that what we set out to do?”

“It is,” Bridget agreed.

“We have reports of lingering rifts, and many questions remain, but this was indeed a victory. You have much to be proud of, Bridget,” Leliana told her.

“I couldn’t have done it without all of you.”

“It has been our pleasure to stand at your side.” Cassandra smiled. “I can remember a day when I could not imagine saying such a thing.”

Bridget returned the smile. “Same here.”

“Word of your heroism has spread, Herald. You will be known throughout Thedas.”

“I’m not certain that’s an honor.”

“I doubt it will be, in the long run.”

Bridget chuckled. “That’s not exactly comforting.”

“I suppose I could have lied,” Leliana agreed, “but would you have believed me?”

“No, I don’t think I would have.” Bridget sobered. “You both know how many were involved today. Will the spread of the news also encompass the good work of the other mages, the cooperation with the Templars we have here?”

“Probably not.”

“More’s the pity.”

Cassandra said, “But we will know, that this was a victory of alliance. One of the few in recent memory.”

“May there be more,” Leliana said softly. “With the Breach closed, that alliance will need new focus.”

No sooner were the words out of her mouth than the alarms sounded. The three of them looked toward the gates. Bridget wished with all her heart that she was surprised, but she wasn’t. Some part of her had been expecting this—whatever it was.

Below, she saw Cullen appear, fully armored as he always was. No celebrations for the Commander of the Inquisition, apparently. “To arms!” he was shouting. “Forces approaching!”

“Who are they?” Bridget asked. Both Cassandra and Leliana shook their heads; they didn’t know. That frightened Bridget more than anything else—if her Spymaster didn’t know, if Cassandra, who was always on top of every situation, didn’t know, then how could they possibly be prepared?

“We must get to the gates,” Cassandra said. She caught Bridget by the arm, dragging her along, hurrying down toward the gates to meet Cullen.

Cullen came toward them as they approached. “Only one watchguard has reported in. I fear for the others.”

Bridget was sickened. What had happened to their guards? Those were the Inquisition’s people—hadn’t there been safeguards in place for them? “Who are they?” she asked Cullen.

He shook his head. “It’s a massive force—the bulk of them are still over the mountain. And they carry no banner.”

“No banner?” Cassandra asked in surprise.

“No.”

Josephine appeared, running down from the Chantry. “What is going on?”

“We appear to be on the verge of being attacked,” Cullen told her. “Can you rally as many of the noncombatants as you can, get them to the safety of the Chantry? It’s the most defensible building we have.”

“Of course.” Bridget was impressed with the Ambassador’s self-possession. There were no further questions, no hand-wringing. She merely hurried off, collecting people as she went. 

The troops inside the gates were ranging behind Cullen and Cassandra. The troops outside the gates seemed to be under the capable gaze of the Iron Bull, or at least, his was the loudest voice. Bridget wasn’t entirely certain she trusted the big Qunari, but she was glad to have him along in the current crisis. Judging from the professionalism of his Chargers, if anyone could keep the troops outside together until a plan was formed, he could.

There was a scuffle outside, and then a pounding on the outside of the closed gates. “Hey, you in there. Got someone out here who wants to talk to you,” shouted the Iron Bull.

Bridget saw the brief flash of a look between Cullen and Cassandra, and she wondered if they shared her innate distrust of the Qunari and the faintest suspicion that he might be behind this attack. If so, they didn’t show it, however, and Cullen moved to open the gates.

The Iron Bull stood there, one giant hand clasped on the shoulder of a pale and odd-looking young man in a giant floppy hat. “You might want to listen to him,” he said. “He seems to know what’s going on. More than anyone else does, at least.” The grey eye in the dark face studied Cullen and Cassandra, and behind them Leliana, with disapproval. The Iron Bull clearly seemed to think the advisors had failed. Bridget didn’t know what to think. The distant hillside was alive with torches, bright against the white snow. Surely they ought to have had some warning of the approach of a force that large.

“Who are you?” she asked the boy.

“I’m Cole,” he told her. “I came to warn you. To help. People are coming to hurt you.” He paused, looking at Bridget. “You probably already know.”

“I had some inkling,” she said dryly. “Can you tell me who is coming?”

“The Templars. They’re coming to kill you.”

Bridget looked quickly over her shoulder at Cullen, who paled and then reddened, as shock and then anger overcame him. “Templars?” he shouted, coming at the boy, who ducked and hid behind the Iron Bull. “Is this the Order’s response to our talks with the mages? Attacking blindly? What can they be thinking?”

Peeking around from behind the Iron Bull’s bulk, Cole said quickly, “The Red Templars went to the Elder One. You know him?” He looked at Bridget, holding her gaze. “He knows you. You took his mages.”

“The Elder One?” she repeated. “Alexius’s Elder One? He’s behind this? What does he have to do with the Templars? And who are the Red Templars?” She looked at Cullen, who shook his head helplessly. Clearly he didn’t have the answers she was looking for.

Cole pointed to a distant ridge. A man stood there, and as they watched, he was joined by another man, taller and thinner and, even from this distance, odd-looking. There was something familiar about him, something that made Bridget’s head hurt. Cullen, next to her, was squinting, studying the two of them. 

“I know that man,” he said softly, disbelief heavy in his voice. “How—how is it possible that he is here? And with the Elder One?”

“Who is he?”

“His name is Samson,” Cullen answered.

“The Elder One is very angry that you took his mages,” Cole said seriously. “He is coming to let you know just how angry.”

“I think we’ve gotten the message,” Bridget said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. There seemed to be so many of them. She hadn’t known there were that many Templars in all of Thedas, much less massing just outside Haven. “Cullen! Give me a plan. Anything!”

“I—“ He still stood, frozen, staring up at the man he’d called Samson. “Haven is no fortress,” he said slowly, as if unwilling to make the admission. “If we are to withstand this monster, we must control the battle.” He looked at Bridget. “I’ll coordinate our people, we’ll hit that force with everything we can. You take your team and go where it seems you are most needed. We must try to hold them back.”

He drew his sword and turned to the forces assembled behind him. “To arms, Inquisition! We will attack, we will drive them back. Mages!” His gaze swept the group of robed figures. “You have sanction to engage them! But be wary. Those are Templars—they know what you can do. Show them your power! That is Samson at their head—he will not make this easy on you.”

Bridget saw the mages nod their heads, one after the other. Her particular people were surrounding her now, and she looked at them. “Vivienne, Solas, Dorian, with the mages, please. They’ll need encouragement and support from people who know what they’re doing.” Vivienne looked as though she wanted to argue, as did Solas, surprisingly enough, but all of them nodded in agreement. “Bull, you and the Chargers know what you’re doing?” He raised an eyebrow, and Bridget smiled. “Of course you do. Take …” She looked around for Cole, but he was gone. “Where did he go?”

“No idea.”

“Well, if you see Cole, hang onto him.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Bridget turned to Sera. “Can you help Josephine rally the noncombatants and get them to the Chantry? Try to keep the panic down. And if any Templars come near the building—“

“Arrow in the face!” crowed Sera. “You got it.” 

Leliana was nowhere to be seen, no doubt off with her scouts organizing something. Cassandra stood near Bridget. “Are you with me?” she asked.

Cassandra nodded. “Of course.”

“Bianca and I are at your service, Sunflower,” Varric said from somewhere behind her. She turned and met his eyes and they smiled at one another. She felt better having him there.

And Blackwall was naturally just a few steps away. She hadn’t even had to look for him. Bridget reached out a hand, touching his sleeve, the solidness of him comforting her. He nodded at her gravely.

In front of the troops, Cullen thrust his sword above his head, his voice carrying. It held the ring of command, and she could see how the strength of his voice heartened the troops. Something to remember, she thought, if they lived through this. “Inquisition!” he cried. “With the Herald! For your lives! For all of us!”

Bridget led the three of them through the gates, looking around. The Templars were approaching rapidly. She could see odd spots of red on their armor, unusual. They were besetting a trebuchet in front of her, and Bridget motioned to her companions to head in that direction. As they came close, a Templar stabbed one of the Inquisition people, his sword slicing through a thin place in the armor so easily. Too easily. They needed better armor. If only she’d been able to get Harritt more help, more supplies. This was her fault, Bridget thought. In her anger and grief, she reached for the lightning and called it down on the Templar, who screamed as the lightning arced inside his metal breastplate.

The battle continued; Bridget struck and ran and dodged blows and promised herself she would learn some defensive moves if she survived all of this and did her best to keep track of her people and go where she was needed. Dimly she was aware of the trebuchets firing and the sounds of combat all around her … and of those sounds slowly receding, fading.

A particularly well-struck blow from a trebuchet smashed into the side of the mountain, creating a massive avalanche that rolled down over the oncoming troops of Templars. It appeared as though the battle was won, as though the troops were receding.

A cheer went up—but it was short-lived, because out of the cloud of snow created by the avalanche flew a creature of flame and rage. A dragon. A blast of its fiery breath as it swooped above them destroyed a trebuchet. Another blast caught a group of soldiers and mages, who screamed in agony as they rolled in the fresh snow to put out the flames.

“Run!” Bridget screamed. “Inside the gates!”

She retained enough presence of mind to try to push her people ahead of her; she didn’t want anyone left behind to fall prey to that thing if she could possibly avoid it. Then she was inside the gates, Cullen closed them behind her, and outside the dragon screamed in anger, a piercing shriek Bridget knew she would be hearing in her nightmares for the rest of her life … if she had a rest of her life to have nightmares in.


	13. The Elder One

Cullen was shouting, calling to everyone within hearing to fall back to the Chantry, and people were streaming through the little settlement of Haven, rushing toward the massive building. The Red Templars hadn’t breached the walls yet, but they were coming closer, and fireballs were flying over the walls, smashing buildings and landing on the unwary. Most of the huts were on fire already.

The Templar Lysette called out to Bridget, “Inside the inn! Someone is trapped!”

Bridget and Blackwall ran in that direction, pushing their way through the debris. Flissa, the bartender, was pinned under a fallen piece of timber, crying out between coughs. The smoke inside the room was dense. Between them, they pried the wood off her, and Lysette helped her to stand. “Get her to the Chantry!” Bridget shouted over the crackle of the flames. Lysette nodded and hurried out, half-supporting and half-carrying Flissa.

Adan, the potion maker, was trapped inside his hut, the roof having collapsed over the door. Blackwall battered at the debris until he had made enough of a hole to get Adan out.

As they approached the Chantry, Cassandra and Varric came from the other direction with several other villagers, soot-marked and scraped and bloody. Cullen awaited them at the doors of the Chantry. “Hurry!”

Bridget made sure Adan was inside and being cared for before she turned to Cullen, who was closing the doors behind them. Outside, she could hear the dragon scream, the sound sending chills through her body.

Cole was kneeling next to a wounded man just to the right of the doors. With some surprise, Bridget recognized the man as Chancellor Roderick. She hadn’t seen him in quite some time; in fact, she’d wondered if he had left Haven. Apparently he hadn’t, and he was going to pay for staying with his life, to judge from the blood that bubbled to his lips when he coughed.

Cullen sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Our position is as bad as it could be. That dragon stole back any time you might have earned us. We’ll have to prepare for a siege, and we’re hardly equipped.”

“I’ve seen an Archdemon,” Cole said softly. “I was in the Fade, but … it looked like that.”

“Archdemon?” Bridget repeated. “What difference does that make?” A regular dragon would have made just as much of a mess out there.

Cullen appeared to agree. “I don’t care what it looks like; it has cut a path for that army. They’ll kill everyone in Haven.”

Bridget clutched at the locket around her neck. She would never see Declan again. He wouldn’t even notice; she was just the odd mage aunt he wasn’t comfortable around. There would never be another chance to get to know him … and the Breach would spread and he and everyone else in the world would suffer under the Elder One’s rule. 

“The Elder One doesn’t care about the village. He only wants the Herald.” Cole was looking off into the distance as though he heard things the rest of them didn't.

“Then that’s what he’ll get,” Bridget said with decision. “How do I stop him?”

She could see that her statement, and her question, weren’t what Cullen had expected. He looked at her, frowning, searching for an answer. 

Cole said, “It won’t be easy. He has a dragon.”

“We know what he has!” Cullen snapped. He looked at Bridget, his shoulders slumping. “Herald, we—there are no tactics to make this survivable. The only thing that slowed them was the avalanche.”

“Couldn’t we create another one?” Cassandra asked. “We could turn the trebuchets, cause one last slide.”

“We’re overrun,” Blackwall objected. “To hit the enemy, we’d bury Haven.”

Cullen nodded, not taking his eyes off Bridget. “We’re going to die,” he admitted, “but we can decide how. Many don’t get that choice.”

Including all of those who would be doomed under the Elder One if she couldn’t stop him, Bridget thought. 

A moan came from Chancellor Roderick, a faint whisper, and Cole bent his ear to hear what he was saying. “Yes, that,” he said. “Chancellor Roderick can help. He says … there is a path, half-hidden, that goes from the back of the Chantry up the mountain, high enough to avoid being buried by the avalanche.”

Bridget felt something like hope steal over her. She looked at Cullen. “If I distract the Elder One and his dragon, can you get the people to safety?”

After a moment, he nodded. “I will do my best. But what of you, your escape?”

She held his gaze steadily.

“But—“ he began to protest, no doubt thinking of the mark. But the Breach was closed. The Elder One was the danger now, and Bridget would see that through. Cullen must have read her determination in her face, because he sighed, accepting the inevitable. “Perhaps … you will find a way to surprise it.”

“Perhaps.” Bridget glanced at Blackwall over her shoulder. He nodded, and she was grateful to have him with her. Cassandra moved to stand next to him, and Varric, after a moment, shouldered Bianca and joined them. Bridget regretted that the three of them were willing to throw their lives away, but she needed them. 

Cullen barked a few orders over his shoulder, getting people moving. Cole got to his feet, helping Chancellor Roderick to his feet and down the hall toward the back entrance of the building. The rest of the Inquisition began to assemble, other than those who Cullen was detailing to collect food and blankets and other supplies from around the building. 

He ordered a few soldiers to accompany Bridget and her people out to load the trebuchets, and several of Leliana’s scouts to go scavenge what they could from the burning village.

In the midst of his orders, Cullen came to Bridget, putting his hands on her shoulders. “Keep the Elder One’s attention until we’re above the tree line, if you can. If we are to have a chance—if _you_ are to have a chance … let that thing hear you.”

“Thank you, Cullen. Take good care of the people,” she told him. “And of yourself. The Inquisition needs you.”

“As it does you,” he responded. “You will be in our prayers.”

“I’ll need them.”

He nodded at her and turned away. Bridget faced the doors. “Let’s do this.”

“We are behind you, Herald,” Cassandra said stoutly.

The soldiers ran ahead of them. Bridget couldn’t help stopping to mourn the destruction. Haven had slowly but surely become her home, and now it was gone. Would she ever have another home? Would she outlive this one? Was this her last night, her last moment?

Well, it didn’t matter if it was, she decided. She had survived the Conclave, had gained so much precious time she wouldn’t otherwise have had. She would be grateful for it, and she would use what time she had left for the benefit of the world.

The dragon was swirling above her, probably looking for her, if Cole was correct that she was the Elder One’s target. The sounds of battle were coming from the direction of the trebuchets, Blackwall and Cassandra already moving that way. Bridget and Varric followed them.

Between the four of them and the few soldiers, they were able to push the Red Templars back and get the trebuchet loaded, but the dragon had found them now, and it was sweeping low. “Move!” Bridget told the others. “Go!”

The soldiers went, and Varric. Cassandra glanced up at the dragon, the retreat clearly not sitting well with the Seeker, but she went, too. Blackwall was slower, trying to wait for Bridget, so she put on a burst of speed and gave him an encouraging smile, and when she thought he was far enough down the road she fell back. If the Elder One wanted her, he could come get her, and she would hold out long enough for the others to escape.

A blast from the dragon caught her, rolling her over in the snow, and by the time she had managed to get back on her feet, he was there. The Elder One, seeming to emerge from a burst of flame, stalking toward her. He wasn’t in a hurry, for which Bridget was grateful. Maybe she really had a chance to distract him long enough to buy safety for the others. 

And there they were, face to face at last, the Elder One tall and twisted strangely, almost as if he had been partially melted at some point. Bridget was proud of how steadily she stood, despite the apparent imminence of her death. 

The dragon landed behind her, waiting, watching the Elder One. It wasn’t going to hurt her until it was ordered to do so, Bridget decided, and she ignored it, keeping her eyes on the Elder One as well. 

At last he spoke. “Pretender. You toy with forces beyond your ken.”

“I did what needed to be done. That’s all.” She took a deep breath. “Whatever you are, I am not afraid.”

He laughed, his twisted face grotesque. “Words mortals often hurl at the darkness. Once even my own words. They are always lies. Know me. Know what you have pretended to be.”

“I never wanted to be you!”

The Elder One ignored her. “Exalt the Elder One, the will that is Corypheus!”

Corypheus. Bridget filed the name away. If she managed to escape, by some miracle, Cullen and Leliana would need to know the Elder One’s name.

“You will kneel,” he commanded her.

Bridget’s knees were quivering, although she wasn’t conscious of being afraid. She refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her waver, however, and she stiffened her back, raising her chin. “You’ll get nothing out of me!” There was a quaver in her voice, however much she tried to hide it, and she could tell he heard it.

“It matters not.” He suddenly held some kind of glowing orb in his hand, studying it, turning it in his long fingers. “I am here for the Anchor. The process of removing it begins now.”

Any questions Bridget might have had about what the Anchor might be were answered when he reached out his free hand and green magic flowed from it, attaching to the mark on her hand and beginning to pull it. The pain was excruciating, as though her arm was being torn out of its socket. She cried out, clenching her teeth against the agony, stumbling forward in an attempt to relieve the pressure. There was no sign that the mark was coming apart from her body, however, and the Elder One, Corypheus, was growing frustrated.

“It is your fault, ‘Herald',” he ground out. “You interrupted a ritual years in the planning, and instead of dying, you stole its purpose.”

“I did?” Bridget could barely focus on his words in the face of the pain. “I … don’t remember.”

If he heard her, he gave no sign of it. “I do not know how you survived, but what marks you, what you flail at rifts, I crafted to assault the very heavens!”

Abruptly the pain ceased, as did the pull of the Elder One’s magic. At the release of the pressure, Bridget fell backward onto her rear, clutching her still-marked hand to her chest. Behind her, the dragon moved, growling deep in its chest. 

“You used the Anchor to undo all my work,” thundered Corypheus. “The gall!”

“What is it?” Bridget gasped. “What is this thing meant to do?”

“It is meant to bring certainty where there is none.” He came to her, lifting her to her feet, and then off her feet, by her marked hand. “I once breached the Fade in the name of another, to serve the Old Gods of the empire in person.”

“In person?” It was hard to focus, dangling here in the air, her arm on fire from the resumed pain. “What do you mean?”

“I found only chaos and corruption, dead whispers,” he said, looking into her face but seeing something far different from long ago, ignoring her questions. “For a thousand years I was confused. No more. I have gathered the will to return under no name but my own, to champion withered Tevinter and correct this blighted world.”

The words sounded good, but there was nothing correct about what he wanted to do. The future of Redcliffe had told her that. Bridget tried to move, but he held her arm in an iron grip. 

He pushed his face very close to hers, and she could practically taste the faintly sweet essence of the red lyrium that seemed to be part of his body, borne on his very breath. “Beg that I succeed,” he whispered, “for I have seen the throne of the gods, and it was empty.”

With a flick of his hand, he sent her flying through the air. She smashed against something wooden, falling in a crumpled heap, pushing herself up to a sitting position. Bridget blinked to clear her head, even as Corypheus continued speaking.

“The Anchor is permanent. You have spoiled it with your stumbling,” he said angrily, coming toward her.

She saw a sword lying near her and scrambled for it, not sure she could manage her magic in her current state. She wasn’t sure she could use a sword, either, but it was better than lying here on the trebuchet platform and waiting for him to kill her. Bridget got to her feet, holding out the sword, trying to remember the way she had seen Cassandra and Blackwall hold their swords. Training, she told herself. If she lived through this, she would get some training—in swords, in daggers, in magic, in defense.

Corypheus and the dragon continued to advance on her. They weren’t hurrying, as though they were enjoying having her trapped here. “So be it,” Corypheus said. “I will begin again, find another way to give this world the nation—and the god—it requires.”

“I’ve seen the kind of god you would be,” she told him breathlessly. Behind him, she saw a flash of light high up in the treeline. The Inquisition was safe. It was time. And she was on the trebuchet platform, she realized. “And no one requires the kind of world you would create. This madness ends here.” The mechanism to release the trebuchet was right next to her. “Your arrogance blinds you,” she said, and she kicked the mechanism, setting the trebuchet in motion. 

They all stood still, watching as the projectile flew up above them, as it struck the mountain, as snow began to slide down it in massive chunks. Bridget turned to run. Behind her, she heard a shriek and a beating of wings as the dragon took off, no doubt carrying Corypheus with it. Well, she had held him off long enough for the Inquisition to get to safety. She wished she could have killed him, but at least she had done that. 

The avalanche was almost on her now. She tripped over something on the ground, falling forward, and landed on her face on something wooden that splintered underneath her, landing in the darkness as the light was closed off above her. And then the darkness took her.


	14. Rising to the Challenge

When he realized Bridget wasn’t behind him any longer, that he had essentially abandoned her to the Elder One and his dragon, Blackwall wanted to go back. But Haven was on fire; he and Cassandra and Varric had barely made it back through the village in the first place. And the others were already gone, the avalanche expected any minute, assuming Bridget could manage to set it in motion. It was too late.

He went with the others up the mountains, he carried burdens and helped people walk through the snow and scouted ahead when Cullen asked it of him, because it was what Bridget would have wanted him to do. But he wanted to die. Once more in his life he had been given a task, a responsibility, to carry out like a man, an honorable man, and once more in his life he had failed utterly and an innocent person had died. How many times in one man’s life could that kind of thing occur before there was no longer any excuse for his continued existence?

So when the Inquisition had finally found a relatively sheltered area to set up a hasty camp and his help was no longer so urgently needed, he had gone to Cullen and volunteered to take on the most foolish and suicidal mission he could think of: He had declared his intention of going back to Haven in search of Bridget. If he died looking for her, that would be a fitting end.

Blackwall had been very surprised when Cullen not only agreed to the mission, but insisted on accompanying him. Cassandra had, as well, and Solas.

And then, by some kind of miracle, they had actually found her. She had evidently survived the avalanche and dug herself out of it, to judge by the condition of her hands, and she had staggered in the direction of Haven until the cold and exhaustion and pain had been too much. It was lucky that Solas had come, because his magic was able to warm her enough to get her circulation flowing again. 

They took turns carrying her back to the camp, but Blackwall was only at peace when she was in his arms, her slight figure held protectively against his chest, her head resting on his shoulder. She was even more delicate and fragile than he had thought the first time he had seen her—and yet infinitely stronger than anyone had ever given her credit for.

The reaction in the Inquisition camp when they came back carrying the Herald was electric—at first. And then the whispers began, the questions about whether blood magic or demons or something even darker that no one understood had been behind Bridget’s survival. While Dorian and Vivienne and Solas and Adan worked over her tirelessly for hours, healing her wounds and bringing her body temperature back up gradually to avoid shocking her system any further, the rest of the Inquisition was busy muttering and grumbling and whispering until Blackwall wanted to tell them all to shut up.

He stationed himself at the door of her tent, moving only to sleep, and then only when he was certain that someone he trusted was with her. It was the least he could do. He had left her there in Haven; she had somehow managed to survive alone. She, who had lived her entire life in a Circle, with no skills, had managed something no one could ever have imagined. And Blackwall was never going to leave her again, he vowed to himself. This was one promise he was going to keep, one responsibility he was not going to shirk.

So it was that Blackwall was there, outside the flap of her tent, when she awoke fully for the first time. She had drifted in and out several times, but never for more than a few minutes. The mages said her body needed sleep to heal fully, and had never seemed concerned, but he was glad to hear the rustle from inside the tent and to look in and see her sitting up, looking faintly woozy still. 

Mother Giselle from the Chantry was in with her. Blackwall couldn’t imagine what a Chantry mother would have to say that needed to be kept from prying ears, so he didn’t even try not to eavesdrop.

And the argument that had clearly disturbed Bridget’s slumber could be heard across camp; no one could have avoided it, even if they'd tried. The advisors could not agree on the best approach, or the next step, or the first priority, or … anything, it seemed.

Cullen was particularly thunderous—Blackwall could tell he blamed himself for what had happened at Haven. “Who put you in charge?” he snapped at Cassandra when the Seeker tried to push them all to choose a location to remove the Inquisition to. “We must have a consensus, or we have nothing!”

“Please,” Josephine interceded. “We must use reason! Without the infrastructure of the Inquisition, we’re hobbled. We must rebuild. We must find a place that is accessible, where we can entertain visitors, or we are ruined.”

“That can’t come from nowhere! We have nothing but the clothes on our backs and what little food was in the Chantry. Before we worry about the nobles of Thedas, we need shelter and food for our own people!”

Leliana shouted, “She didn’t say it could!”

It surprised Blackwall that the spymaster had been drawn into this spat. She seemed too self-controlled for that. But apparently there was plenty of blame to go around—if he gathered correctly, she felt guilty for not paying more attention to her scouts.

Cassandra made a loud noise of disgust. “This is getting us nowhere.”

“At least we’re agreed on that much!” Cullen bellowed.

Inside the tent, the soft voice of Mother Giselle rose above the argument—at least for Blackwall, standing as close to her as he was. “You need rest,” she said softly.

Bridget struggled to sit completely up, putting her feet on the ground for the first time since her rescue. “I need to stop them. This isn’t helping.”

“With time to doubt, we turn to blame,” Mother Giselle said. “Infighting may threaten us as much as this Elder One.”

“Corypheus. His name is Corypheus.”

Blackwall frowned. He’d never heard that name before. Where had this Corypheus come from, exactly? He would have to ask, sometime when Bridget was healed and ready to talk about it.

“Do we know where Corypheus and his forces are?” Bridget continued.

Mother Giselle admitted, “We are not sure where we are. Which may be why there is no sign of him or the numbers he commands.” She paused, then added, “Or you are believed dead. Or we are thought helpless, driven from Haven. Or he girds for another attack.”

“What a lovely set of options,” Bridget observed, and Blackwall smiled, glad to hear the dry humor in her voice. He had missed that. “If that thing is still out there, we cannot afford to stay still. He will come for us. For me,” she added softly.

“They are uncertain where to go,” Mother Giselle told her. “And … there are questions. About you.”

Silence, and then Bridget sighed, a heavy, sad sound that made Blackwall’s heart hurt. “Because I lived.”

“Yes.”

Wearily, Bridget said, “There was nothing magical in it, nothing miraculous. I was thrown clear of the avalanche; I dug my way out. I was found and brought back here and saved through the hard work of our mages. Simple as that.”

“It is hard to accept, what ‘we’ have been called to endure. What ‘we’, perhaps, must come to believe. The people know only what they have seen. Or what they needed to see. The Maker works both in the moment, and in how it is remembered.”

Unseen by the two women in the tent, Blackwall rolled his eyes. He had nothing against the Chantry, although he wasn’t certain what he thought of the Maker, but this hardly seemed to be the time to try to convert the Herald of Andraste to greater faith.

“Corypheus claimed to have assaulted the heavens,” Bridget said softly. “What do you think?”

Mother Giselle paused a moment, then said, “Scripture says Tevinter servants of the false Old Gods entered the Fade to reach the Golden City. Corypheus claims to be one of them?”

“He does.”

“Hm. Their hubris is why we suffer Blight—they were the first darkspawn. And why the Maker turned from us. If Corypheus is one of them … he is a monster beyond imagining.”

“Yes. That he is.”

“If even a shred of that is true—all the more reason why Andraste would choose someone to rise against him.”

Bridget sighed. “I just don’t see why what I believe matters. It’s what I can do—or what I can’t—that is important.”

She got up and came to the door of the tent, pausing when she found Blackwall standing there. They looked at each other for a moment. He wanted to speak, but there were no words. Bridget reached out and touched the back of his hand, briefly, then moved on toward the main campfire. Mother Giselle followed her.

The advisors had ceased their argument, with no resolution that Blackwall was aware of, and scattered to be alone. Clearly they, like the rest of the Inquisition, were bowed under the weight of their fear and uncertainty. Blackwall felt comparatively lucky—he had a task set before him, a tangible task, that of protecting the Herald. He may have given the task to himself, but it gave him focus, a purpose. The rest of the Inquisition seemed to be lacking that.

And then Mother Giselle began to sing, her deep voice ringing in the clear, cold air around them. It was an old song, one Blackwall remembered his mother singing to him in his cradle. He hummed along with her, liking the feel of the melody in his throat, the familiar notes comforting.

He wasn’t alone. One by one the rest of the Inquisition joined in, until they were all standing around the bonfire, and around Bridget, singing. 

Then, still singing, as of one accord they all took a knee, looking up at Bridget, who appeared discomfited and a little alarmed by the adulation implicit in the act. Still, she seemed to understand that the song, and the gesture, indicated that a new hope had dawned in their hearts, and she inclined her head in acknowledgement and appreciation as the song drew to a close.

Everyone dispersed, but where there had been heavy silence, there was now chatter, discussion where there had been snarls. It had helped. Blackwall’s respect for Mother Giselle went up—she had known just what they needed, and had brought them together skillfully.

Bridget came toward him, and he nodded at her. “That was smart,” he told her. “An army needs more than an enemy—it needs a cause.”

She was about to say something, but then Solas joined them, clearing his throat slightly. “Bridget, if I may, could we speak for a moment?”

They went off together, and Blackwall forbore from following. Solas had saved her, therefore he trusted Solas. Simple as that.

When she came back from her talk with him, she looked thoughtful. She went straight into her tent, and Blackwall heard the cot creak as she lay down on it.

The next thing Blackwall knew, he was being shaken awake, Bridget’s face hovering just above his. “Blackwall.”

He cleared his throat. “Good morning.”

“There is work to be done today,” she told him. “I have to scout ahead of the Inquisition, lead them to a place … well, you’ll see it when we get there. Will you walk with me, help me through the snow and keep me from falling on my face?”

Fully awake, he pushed himself up on one elbow. “I failed you in Haven.”

Bridget smiled. “No, you didn’t. I tricked you.”

“I still shouldn’t have let you.”

“We can debate that later. Will you help me?”

“Of course. Can I have a few minutes to … freshen up?”

Bridget nodded. “I’ll wake the rest of the camp. It will take time to get everyone mobilized.”

And so it did, but she was energized, and her energy was infectious. Sooner than Blackwall had imagined she could, she had the Inquisition marching through the snow up the mountain. He walked in front of everyone with her, breaking the trail for her as best he could.

“This is something Solas told you last night?”

“How did you know?”

“You were very quiet when you came back from talking to him; I took a guess.”

"It was a good one.”

“He has you out in front so that the rest of the Inquisition can see you as a leader; because Corypheus came after you.”

“For this.” She held up the marked hand. “He called it the Anchor; he tried to draw it from me by force. As you can see, he failed.” Clenching the hand, she looked down at it. “I believe it is mine to keep.”

“I see.” He wasn’t sure he did, but it didn’t matter. His task was to protect and serve, not to think or plan. “You think the advisors will go for it?”

Bridget glanced back. “They’re following me, aren’t they? And without shouting. I … I don’t know if I want to be out in front, or if I deserve to be, but … it wasn’t working, before.” She shrugged. “I guess we go where we must, don’t we?”

“Yes. Yes, we do.”

They went on and on as the sun rose and stretched across the sky. Occasionally Solas joined them, pointing Bridget on ahead in a new direction, but mostly it was just the two of them. Glancing back, Blackwall saw Leliana in the lead of the main body of the Inquisition, and he wondered if it was she holding everyone back, or if it was Solas … or possibly Cassandra, who walked by herself, off a little from the rest of the group.

As the light turned the dark gold that said the afternoon was waning, Bridget said softly, “Solas told me of a fortress, long abandoned, waiting for a force to hold it, a safe place where the Inquisition can grow. I think that’s what I want, to help it.” She smiled. “I’ve never wanted anything before, not really. Dreamed, fantasized, imagined, but never really wanted something enough to work for it.” Turning to look at him sideways, she asked, “Is this what it feels like to be a normal person?”

“No,” Blackwall told her gently. “That’s what it feels like to be an exceptional person. Most normal people, they want to eat, and to sleep, and if they’re very lucky, to know love. You have an opportunity that few people are granted, to build something new. That you are rising to the challenge says that you are the right person for the job.”

“Do you think I was chosen by Andraste?”

He shrugged. “I don’t care. It’s how you do the job, not who chose you for it, that matters.”

“Thank you.”

Solas caught up to them then. “Just over this rise,” he said, leading the way, but a bit off to the side so that it would look, from behind them, as though Bridget was still in the lead. And then they went around an outcropping, and there it was in the distance, a magnificent fortress, nestled amongst the snow-covered mountains. “Yes,” Solas said softly. “Skyhold.”

“Skyhold,” Bridget repeated. “It’s beautiful.”

It was, too, even though Blackwall could only imagine how much work lay ahead of them. Still, building a home put heart into a person, the will to do what needed to be done. Even Blackwall could feel the draw toward it, the longing to put his hands to work, and he smiled. For the first time in a long while, he was glad to be alive.


	15. Inquisitor

There was a lot of work to do. Skyhold was remarkably well-preserved, for a castle that had stood empty for what seemed to be centuries, but debris had built up everywhere. Buildings had to be cleared out, animals shooed away or trapped, depending on their usefulness, timbers shored up, rocks put back in their place and cemented.

Josephine and Cullen took charge, she of the keep and he of the defenses. Since neither of them knew much about the actual work that needed to be done to make the buildings safe and strong again, a call went out amongst the Inquisition’s people and the pilgrims following it. A hefty number came forth, and from those the clear foreman emerged in Sherice, an elf from Churneau in the far north of Orlais. She was muscular and mouthy and took no nonsense from anyone—but she was also efficient and focused, and within a few days everyone had learned who to go to if you needed something completed.

Bridget tried to stay out of the way of the actual work. She had no skill with her hands, not when it came to building. Or to swordsmanship, it appeared. Remembering the lessons learned in the battle at Haven, she asked the Iron Bull and Cassandra and Blackwall to teach her in the basic use of weaponry and defense. Her hands blistered from the hours spent on the practice field, both with them and with Dorian and Vivienne and Solas, who were continuing her tutelage in combat magic. She felt like a slow learner, and her teachers’ serious faces and exacting standards weren’t always encouraging. But they had her best interests—and the welfare of the Inquisition—in mind, and so she worked her hardest under their guidance.

The rest of the mages were organized under Ellandra, whom Bridget had first met in the Hinterlands. She took charge of them and offered their services where needed, and to Bridget it was fascinating to see her fellow mages learning that their skills had practical applications—almost as fascinating as it was to see everyone else make the same realization.

Slowly but surely, Skyhold took shape. Leliana’s birds made it possible for them to communicate their whereabouts to their allies. A detail, led by Rocky and Grim from the Chargers, began building a road down the mountain so that supplies could be brought in. Krem took the rest of the Chargers, and another detail of the Inquisition’s people, back to scout the area around Haven. Their orders were to begin the road on that end, to look for anything salvageable, and to point anyone looking for the Inquisition in the direction of Skyhold.

The odd boy who had arrived in advance of Corypheus’s army, Cole, flickered about. Sometimes Bridget forgot he existed entirely, and then she would be surprised to find him somewhere unexpected—but she noticed that wherever he appeared, he offered to help, and he seemed to have no concern whatsoever for his own needs. Varric spent most of his time writing, and he seemed pensive when he did take a break. Bridget knew he had commandeered some of Leliana’s birds, and he kept the poor things in steady motion between Skyhold and various areas. But she also knew, from a discreet conversation with Josephine, that Varric had pledged a hefty amount of his personal fortune to the Inquisition’s needs, and she assumed the writing must have something to do with that. Sera had made herself at home in the kitchens, particularly, but she seemed to be on good terms with all the workers in Skyhold. Bridget approved, wishing she had time to do the same … time and the space with which to speak to the Inquisition’s people. Every time she approached, they stopped talking to stare at her, to bow to her, to treat her like royalty. She wasn’t royalty; she had never wanted to be. She just wanted to be helpful. So she tried to maintain close ties with Sera, so that through the elf she would know what the people needed.

Leliana made certain that the highest tower was cleared almost immediately, and she set up a rookery there for her birds … and then proceeded to hide herself away there. Bridget suspected she was feeling guilty over the loss of the scouts, and over the way they had all been surprised at Haven. She didn’t know enough about how that had happened—with Haven in its current condition, and the Inquisition scrambling to rebuild, none of them had yet had time to delve into the details—to say for sure if she agreed, but she couldn’t blame Leliana, or Cullen, in the rare moments when he allowed himself to stop working, for their guilt. She felt it, too, as the roll of those lost grew. She should have been able to do more.

Next time, she vowed, she would do more, and she threw herself back into her training.

She and Blackwall hadn’t spoken again about the night in his room by the stable; there had been no time for that, and Bridget felt no need of the words. She knew how she felt, that she was her most comfortable, her most at ease, by his side, and she knew that he seemed to feel the same, and there was a comfortable pleasant anticipation that thrummed at a low level within her, knowing that some day they would have the chance to act on those feelings.

In the meantime, they walked the battlements most nights, looking over the fortifications, as Blackwall taught her things about guard rotations and preparation for attack that left her wondering who or what he had been before the Grey Wardens. Someday she would ask him, she told herself, just as someday she would tell him about Declan.

One morning, in the midst of all the chaos, she left the room temporarily assigned to her to find her advisors all huddled up together in serious conference. With the lack of a War Table, there hadn’t been much time to go over the major issues ahead of them, and they had all agreed that making Skyhold habitable and safe for all the Inquisition’s people took precedence, but it seemed something else must have come up.

Cassandra caught sight of Bridget and waved her over. As Bridget reached them, the others scattered, without looking at her. A chill worked its way down her spine. “What has happened? Is something wrong?” She searched Cassandra’s face. While the Seeker was difficult to get to know well, she thought they had a certain understanding of one another, and she believed Cassandra would never lie to her.

“Walk with me, will you?”

“Of course.”

They passed knots of tents, pilgrims come to be part of the Inquisition, to watch it grow. Bridget was proud that they were a destination for those in Thedas who were searching for new answers, and worried about what their ultimate answer would be. But it wasn’t her place to formulate that answer, and for that she was grateful.

Cassandra saw her gaze at the tents, and nodded. “Yes. They arrive daily, from every settlement in the region. Skyhold has become a pilgrimage, like Haven was before it.”

“It’s no joke making that climb, with the road not yet completed. I hope they all get what they’ve come for.”

“As do I.” Cassandra looked at her gravely. “You know, of course, that if word has reached all these people, and those sending us supplies and information … it has also reached the Elder One.”

“Yes. I had thought of that.” Part of Bridget was proud that she had learned to think tactically, at least this far. Another part of her was scared to death to have to face that twisted monster again. But he wanted her, not the Inquisition. She, and the Anchor she bore, stood in his way and had foiled his plans. He would come for her again—she must be ready.

“We have the walls and numbers to put up a fight here, but this threat is far beyond the war we anticipated.” Cassandra led her up the stone stairs to the upper courtyard. 

Bridget felt tears sting the back of her eyes. “It’s my fault. I brought this on all of us.” She raised the hand with the Anchor on it. “I don’t even know how I got this, but … somehow, I drew the anger of Corypheus.”

“The Anchor has power, yes, and it will continue to draw Corypheus, but it has done so already and yet here we are. The Inquisition has not fallen—if anything, it has grown, and you are still standing here. Many of us would not have believed you capable of the strength and courage you have shown.” Cassandra’s grey eyes held a respect and affection that filled Bridget with warmth. To think that she had impressed this stalwart warrior, this proud and strong woman in front of her. The old Bridget, the Bridget of the Circle, could never have done so.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Not at all. You have earned my words. And more. Your decisions allowed us to heal the sky. Your determination brought us out of Haven. You are that creature’s rival as much because you snatched the mages out of his grasp and defeated him at Haven as because of whatever action brought you that mark. And we know it. All of us.”

They were at the foot of the stairs that led to the main keep now, and Cassandra turned to look at Bridget. “You are a symbol of hope to many, not just because you were found after the Conclave, or for the mark you bear, but for what you have done with your freedom and your responsibilities. You stepped up. When you could have run, or shrunk from leading when you were called upon to do so, you stood forth and allowed your voice to be heard. Do not think we have missed the way you work to learn, to train your body to be ready to fight better and your mind to understand the world of combat, a world you were not exposed to before you came here.”

As they reached the first landing, Bridget saw Leliana standing in front of them, holding a sword delicately balanced on her two outstretched hands. She lifted her bowed head when they approached, looking Bridget in the eye.

Next to her, Cassandra said softly, “The Inquisition requires a leader. And who better than the one who has already been leading it without knowing she was doing so?”

Startled, Bridget turned to look at her. “Me?”

“Of course you. Who else?”

“I had thought that you would—“ 

But Cassandra was shaking her head emphatically. “I do not have the disposition for leadership. I can command, but not encourage, or hearten, or sympathize. You can do all those things.”

Below, in the lower courtyard, Bridget could see the Inquisition massing, their eyes on her, and she gave Leliana a nod to show that she understood the manipulation at hand. She could no sooner have bowed out of this responsibility in the face of all these people looking to her for answers, people she owed for their courage and faith at Haven and for their hard work at Skyhold, than she could take the Anchor off and give it to somone else. Leliana managed to avoid smirking, but only just barely.

Cullen and Josephine were at one side in the crowd, and Bridget searched both their faces, looking for any misgivings. Neither seemed to feel any, or they masked them well, if so. 

But they had all forgotten one very large factor, something that seemed likely to cause endless problems. She turned to Cassandra. “Have you forgotten that I’m a mage? How can a mage head the Inquisition? When my kind are locked up all over Thedas?”

“Not any mage,” Cassandra corrected. “You.”

“But I am a mage. I can’t change that.”

“I will not pretend to imagine there will be no objections … but times are changing. Perhaps the Maker sent you to change them. How can we know for certain? And no one will ever know if we do not try, here, today.”

Put that way, it was even more impossible for Bridget to refuse. 

“Without you, there would be no Inquisition. How it will serve, how you lead—those will be yours to decide.”

Bridget could feel the burden as a tangible thing settling itself on her shoulders. Maker forgive her, she didn’t truly want this. But she would take it, and she would do her best, because really, she had no other choice. She had recognized that after Haven, as she led her people up the mountain at Solas’s behest, when she saw Skyhold in front of them and understood that as far as anyone knew, she was the one who had brought them here.

She reached out and took the blade from Leliana’s hands, lifting it experimentally, and very glad she had been training with the Iron Bull, because it was heavy, and she would not have wanted her first act as Inquisitor to be dropping the sword. 

“How will you decide? To what end will you lead us?” Leliana asked softly.

The answer came to Bridget’s lips immediately. “There is only one end that matters at the moment. Corypheus will never let us live in peace—he made that perfectly clear. And what he intends for Thedas would bring ruin across all the lands we love. He intends to be a god, to rule over us, and his rule would not be a benevolent one. He must pay for what he did at Haven, for what he has done to the Templar order, for what he did at the Conclave. Corypheus must be stopped.”

Leliana nodded her approval, and Cassandra’s eyes shone. She stepped to the edge of the landing and called down to the courtyard, “Have our people been told?”

“They have,” Josephine replied. “And soon the world will know.”

“Commander, will they follow?”

Instead of responding directly, Cullen drew his sword and walked before the people, holding it aloft. “Inquisition! Will you follow? Will you fight?”

The cheer he got in response brought tears to Bridget’s eyes. She thought suddenly of Declan, wishing he could be here, wishing he could see what his mother had accomplished with her life. Of course, he didn’t know she was his mother … but in wishing, anything was possible. She found her eyes drifting over the crowd, looking for the familiar dark head of hair and full beard, and her eyes met Blackwall’s. There was pride in his face, and satisfaction, but a sadness, too, some distance that hadn’t been there before. Or so she felt, before her attention was drawn back to Cullen.

He stood with his sword pointed in her direction, shouting, “Your leader! Your Herald! Your Inquisitor!”

Bridget raised her own sword in response, the cheers filling her heart and lifting her spirits. She could lead these people, these supportive and enthusiastic people. And she would, if that was what they needed from her.

There was a celebration of sorts, a chance to take a break and rest from their work and enjoy the fruits of their labors—so much had already been done.

After the feasting, everyone withdrew to their own tents or temporary rooms. Musical instruments began playing, songs were sung, card games were played. Bridget stood in the dark and listened, enjoying the sound of the Inquisition at rest and at play. 

Behind her, she heard the Iron Bull’s deep voice. “Inquisitor, huh? Well, at least you’ve got the fortress for it.”

“Yes, I do have that going for me. What do you think of all this, Bull? What do the Qunari think?”

He shrugged, smiling a little. “The Qunari think anyone who’s going to take care of the hole in the sky and that darkspawn Vint asshole has their, albeit limited, approval. I think you’ve worked damn hard and deserve the chance … and I’m here to see you don’t fall on your ass.”

“Thank you. I think.”

“I’m good at keeping people from falling on their asses.” Then, in a different voice, he said, “You have a second? I want to show you something.”

“Sure.”

“Good. You’ll want to wear this.” He held out a battered and filthy mercenary’s coat.

“Okay,” Bridget said doubtfully, but she shrugged it on. The Iron Bull wrapped a scarf around her neck, partially obscuring her face, and gave her a pair of old gloves to pull on, hiding the Anchor. And then he led her on a tour of Skyhold, the part she never got to see because everyone went silent when she approached. They met young men and older women, elves and dwarves. They met idealists who believed the Inquisition was saving the world, political-minded types who wanted to build an empire to rival Orlais’, adventure seekers who saw the Inquisition as their chance to start a new life and see the world, the downtrodden who were looking to lift themselves up and have more out of their lives than their parents had, mercenaries who saw a chance to make quick coin, braggarts who intended to make a name for themselves, those who had been inspired by Bridget’s stand against Corypheus, true believers who really thought she was touched by the hand of Andraste herself, and many, many more.

At the end of the night, when the Iron Bull took the coat and scarf and gloves back from Bridget, she felt she knew the Inquisition she had promised to lead this afternoon much better. “Thank you, Bull.”

He nodded. “I make a point of knowing every soldier under my command, but you don’t have that option … and it’ll only get harder as the Inquisition—and your reputation—grow. I thought a few faces might help.”

“I appreciate it. It helps to have their perspective, a great deal.”

“Thought it might. You’ve got a good army coming along; remember that, no matter what comes next.” The Iron Bull smiled at her, the rare smile he gave her on the practice field when she did something right. “Good-night, Inquisitor.”

“Good-night, Bull.”

Still full of everything she had seen tonight, trying to work through what she had learned, Bridget sought out Sera for a bit of light-hearted fun to settle her mind, but she found the elf surprisingly pensive.

“Inquisitor now, right?” Sera asked as Bridget took a seat next to her on the battlement, swinging her legs out into space above the courtyard. “Big doings.”

“Too big.”

“Just so you don’t let being one of the big people go to your head. Too many little people around for that.”

“How are your friends?” Bridget asked. “Are they ready to get on with the Inquisition’s tasks?”

Sera looked at her as though she’d grown a second head. “My friends don’t do the Inquisition’s tasks; they do its work. They’re muckin’ out your stables and your privies and peelin’ your bloody potatoes.”

“True.” Bridget hadn’t thought of it quite that way, but she supposed if your job was to clean up after a meal, you didn’t particularly care what the people who had eaten were about to do for the world; you probably mostly cared how neatly they had eaten. She said as much to Sera, who nodded approvingly.

“See, you’re gettin’ it. Keep thinkin’ like that and you won’t find hairs in your milk.”

Bridget smiled, but she knew the elf was completely serious.

“Hey, you remember that war we were gonna stop?” Sera said. “Full of little baddies I can stick with my little arrows? That one?”

“I remember it.”

“Well, that’s not a friggin’ Archdemon, is it?”

“No. To be fair, I didn’t know about the Archdemon myself.”

“True enough,” Sera admitted grudgingly. “Still, have to wonder what we’ve stepped in now.” She frowned at Bridget. “I know what happened to you—or what everyone here thinks happened. It seems … well, I don’t know what it seems.”

“It seems overblown, because it is. I didn’t die, Sera. I was buried by the snow, but I crawled out. That’s all. Anyone could have.”

“Yeah, but anyone didn’t, did they? And now we’ve got this thing after us, a magister who cracked the ‘Black City’. It’s a hazy dream, right? Supposed to be. Has to be. Because if that’s real real, then the Seat of the Maker? Real thing. A seat needs a butt, so the Maker? Real thing. Fairy stories about the start and end of the world? Real things!” Sera was bouncing around so violently in her agitation that Bridget was afraid she’d fall off the wall. “It’s too far, innit? I just want to plug the hole in the sky so I can go play!”

“I think that’s what we all want to do, Sera,” Bridget offered. She didn’t particularly want to fall into the trap of overthinking Corypheus’s claims and what they meant for belief systems across Thedas. She wanted to focus on the one real being in front of her and stopping him from ending the world as she knew it. So she supposed she also wanted just to plug the hole in the sky so she could play. She said so to Sera, who snorted.

“That’s what the little people say. Big people like you, they say the big things and make it all sound right.”

“Tomorrow,” Bridget said wearily. “Tomorrow I’ll say the big things and make it all sound right. Tonight, can we just remember that I used to be a smaller person than I am now?”

“Deal.” Sera smiled. “Tell you what—I have arrows. I can make this Coryphellus believe in those. Good enough?”

“Good enough for me. You know, you’re starting to not sound completely crazy.”

Sera laughed at that. “I know! Scary, right?”

Bridget laughed, too. “Terrifying.” She got up off the wall and made her way down to her temporary quarters. She’d been told she would get new quarters as Inquisitor, and Josephine promised a good long talk about fabrics and furniture … In the morning, Bridget imagined that would sound exciting. Tonight, it sounded like a lot more exhausting decisions. She fell onto her cot and was asleep within minutes, Declan’s locket firmly clutched in her hand.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Blackwall paced the battlements for a while, looking up at the stars. It was nice up here—almost like living in the wilds in Ferelden, but near people, too. He had forgotten how much he missed them. Taking off his coat and working to rebuild walls, side by side with the rest of the Inquisition, made him feel like part of something, the way he had imagined being a Grey Warden might have, if he had ever managed to truly become one.

And then those cooling, refreshing draughts of ale with them afterward, laughing at their jokes, telling a few himself—but carefully, lest their age and provenance reveal him to be something other than he claimed to be. All of it felt remarkably normal. For the first time in a long, long while, he felt almost … happy.

Not a little of that, of course, was the Herald of Andraste herself, the newly minted Inquisitor. He hadn’t had a chance to speak with her about that yet, but he wanted to know how she felt. But at the same time—he deserved her friendship, and the something more he could see dawning in those blue eyes, the something more that quickened his heart and made his breath come short, even less than he had before.

Varric’s voice came from behind him. “Ah, there you are, brooding on your dark backstory again. Why is it always the broody ones?”

Blackwall turned to look down at the dwarf. “Excuse me?”

“Come on, you know you have one.” Varric handed him a covered flagon. “Brought you some libations, since it didn’t look like you were coming down.”

“Maybe I wanted to be alone,” Blackwall suggested, but he took the flagon anyway.

“Maybe so. But I have experience with you broody types—if you’re left alone too much, it’s bad for everyone.”

“Who says I brood?”

Varric chuckled. “They always deny it. Out with it. Someone dear to you that you lost? Someone you failed to save?”

“Does anyone ever punch you? You deserve to be punched.”

Ignoring him, Varric cocked his head to the side. “A grave error in judgment, maybe, causing one too many deaths? I’ve known a few people like that.”

Blackwall sipped his ale, looking out over the edge of the battlements, concentrating on keeping his face impassive.

“Betrayal! That’s always a good one.” When Blackwall didn’t respond, Varric cajoled, “Come on, you have to give me something.”

“No, I don’t.”

Varric gave a dramatic sigh. “You know if you don’t tell me, I’ll have to make something up. Let’s see, how about ‘the lone wanderer, searching the world, trying to find’ … what’s he trying to find, you think? Love? Absolution?”

It was a good question, and one Blackwall had never quite found the answer to. “Probably he just wants to be left alone. Or perhaps he’s just looking for someone with a strong arm and a stronger will to fight darkspawn.”

“Good, good! What does that represent?”

Blackwall took another sip, looking down at the dwarf imperturbably. “Wanting to kill more darkspawn.”

“You know, I knew someone just like you in Kirkwall. Chantry this and retake his throne that. Never cracked a smile once in six years. You ever smile, Blackwall?”

“I might if I kicked you over the edge of the battlement.”

“Ooh, touchy.”

“You know, I’ve been to Kirkwall, once. Probably been twenty years ago, actually.”

“Oh, yes?” Varric perked up. His love for his home was well known.

“The Hanged Man, actually. It was a dive, if I remember correctly.”

“It’s _the_ dive,” Varric corrected. “Filled with the best and worst people in the world.”

“Which are you?” Blackwall quirked an eyebrow at the dwarf. He liked Varric well enough—it was hard not to—but he was more comfortable when Varric’s endless curiosity was pointed elsewhere.

“Ouch.”

“Can dish it out but you can’t take it, eh?”

Varric grinned. “I can take it all right.”

“You know, I read some of your book once. _Hard in Hightown_? Riveting stuff.”

“So riveting that you only read some? I’m crushed.”

Blackwall gave the dwarf his wickedest grin. “Couldn’t afford to buy my books, you see. Found this one in a latrine in a village near Dragon’s Peak. It was missing some pages.”

Varric laughed outright at that one. “And game point to Blackwall. For today, my broody friend, for today. I imagine there will be plenty more material for stories, coming right up.”


	16. Where It Begins

The main hall of Skyhold’s keep had been largely neglected; the space itself wasn’t needed for shelter or food preparation or defense, so it had been lower down on everyone’s list of tasks to accomplish. But now, Josephine said as the advisors and Bridget met over a cup of coffee at a campfire, it was time to make the Inquisition a place with some dignity and solidity, and that meant dealing with the main hall.

The four of them climbed the steps to the grand wooden doors that held the hall closed, and then the others stood back and let Bridget open them. She hesitated a moment, worried she wouldn’t be strong enough, then pushed, and the doors opened at her touch, dust rising inside at the influx of air, then settling slowly. She led the way in, looking around her at the debris. It wasn’t terrible, or so she hoped.

“What do you think, Cullen? Will this take a lot of work?” 

“Hopefully not. The roof seems sound enough, and the rest of it appears mostly cosmetic.”

“I will bring Sherice in as soon as we are finished here, and I am certain she will know where to begin,” Josephine said, making a note on her clipboard.

Bridget thought about asking why Cassandra wasn’t with them, and decided that was a question best posed to Cassandra herself, later. 

Cullen looked around them, a brightness in his face Bridget hadn’t seen before. “So this is where it begins,” he said. “Where we come together as one Inquisition.”

“It began in the courtyard,” Leliana corrected him. With her hood up, her face was in shadow; she looked almost frightening. “This is where we turn that promise into action.”

“There is a room off here that would make for an excellent War Room, hidden deep within the keep and hard to get at from the outside,” Josephine said. “So we have a place to start from, but we don’t know where to go from here. All we know about Corypheus is that he wanted your mark.”

They were all looking at her now, waiting for her to take charge. Didn’t they know she didn’t know what she was doing? Bridget looked down at her hand with the mark shining in it, then closed her fist, taking a deep breath. “Corypheus claims to want to restore Tevinter. Is this the beginning of war with the Imperium?”

Cullen shook his head. “These Venatori seem more like an isolated group of extremists, rather than the vanguard of a true invasion.”

“If the Imperium were going to war, would they begin in the Frostback Mountains, far to the south of them?” Leliana said. “It seems inefficient, at best … and we would have to know if they were arriving in significant numbers.”

The question of how they had missed the Templars in their significant numbers hung in the air, but Bridget let it go. 

“There is also the fact that what Corypheus wants to restore no longer exists,” Josephine offered. “It’s no longer the Imperium of a thousand years ago. He may run into trouble internally trying to restore it to that point. Although … certainly they would shed no tears if the south fell to chaos.”

“And the dragon?” Bridget asked. “Could it really be an Archdemon? Is there a Blight in the offing?”

Cullen looked at her. “What does Blackwall say?”

Shaking her head, Bridget said, “I get the impression he has been so far from the other Wardens for so long that he no longer knows. I can ask him for more detail regarding the Fifth Blight. Or, perhaps, we could ask to speak to the king and queen of Ferelden, who certainly would know an Archdemon if they saw one.”

“We have seen no darkspawn other than Corypheus himself—I would hesitate to leap to the conclusion that it must be a Blight,” Josephine said. “Perhaps it is something different than an Archdemon?”

“Could he have tamed a high dragon?” Cullen sounded rather impressed. “Still, whatever it is, it’s dangerous, and gives Corypheus an advantage we can’t ignore.”

Leliana clasped her hands behind her back. “We do have one advantage of our own. We know what Corypheus intends to do next.” She looked up at Bridget. “In that strange future you experienced, Empress Celene had been assassinated.”

“Yes, that’s true. So … we have to protect the Empress?” Bridget frowned. “How do we do that?”

“Let’s not forget the massive force of demons he somehow had gained in that same future,” Cullen reminded them. “We should discover how he managed that.”

Bridget sighed. “Someone, somewhere, must know more about Corypheus.”

From the open doorway, a familiar voice rasped, “I know someone who can help with that.”

They all turned to see Varric leaning there. Bridget wondered how long he had been listening and what he had heard. Then again, Varric’s spy network was almost as good as Leliana’s—he probably knew quite a bit more than they thought he did.

He came toward them. “Everyone acting all inspirational jogged my memory, so I sent a message to an old friend. He’s crossed paths with Corypheus before, and may know more about what he’s doing. I think he can help.” 

“I’m always looking for new allies,” Bridget told him. “Introduce me.”

“Oh, I will. He should be here in a few days; I’ll let you know when he arrives.” He looked around at the others, hesitating and looking unusually uncomfortable. “But just you. It’s a little bit … complicated. He won’t want to parade around and … cause a fuss.”

“All right.”

Varric didn’t seem quite satisfied with her reaction, and clearly was uncomfortable with Leliana’s scrutiny. He turned and left, quickly.

Once he was gone, Leliana chuckled. “If Varric has brought who I think he has, Cassandra is going to kill him.”

“Who do you think?” Bridget asked.

“Who else?” Cullen shrugged. “Hawke.”

“The Champion of Kirkwall Hawke?” The idea of meeting such a legend, along with the idea she had floated earlier of contacting the heroes of the Fifth Blight, currently sitting on the throne of Ferelden, made Bridget almost dizzy.

“The same,” Leliana confirmed. “Won’t that be interesting.”

“In the meanwhile,” Josephine said, trying to bring them back to the topics at hand, “I will contact Orlais and find out how we can gain an audience with Celene.” 

“I will investigate the lay of the land there and see from what corner danger seems most likely to strike,” Leliana added.

“And I will do my best to find out how one creates an army of demons.” Cullen frowned. “That seems unlikely to be easy.”

It was on the tip of Bridget’s tongue to ask them all what she was to do … but that would hardly be Inquisitorial of her. They were counting on her to lead. “Very well, then. Report to me with your findings. I will … find Sherice and get her started in here.”

Outside, she headed for the sound of the loudest hammering, finding Sherice barking orders inside the structure that was going to become the tavern. The elf turned around, bowing hastily, when Bridget approached. “Inquisitor. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“You can stop bowing, Sherice, for the Maker’s sake! You’re doing better work here than I am, for certain. I should be bowing to you for the fact that there’s a roof over my head and hot food being cooked.”

“Yes, Inquisitor.” Sherice only just barely stopped herself from bowing again, and Bridget sighed. This was going to take some getting used to.

“I wanted to ask you if you’d be willing to come look at the main keep with me. The hall looks to be in decent shape, and Josephine says there’s a room we could use as a War Room.”

“Oh, there is. And so much more!” Sherice said. She nodded at the workmen to get back to what they were doing. “Underneath the hall there’s an area perfect for a workshop. Ah, that reminds me.” She grabbed the shoulder of a passing soldier. “You, can you go get Blacksmith Harritt? Tell him to meet us in the main hall of the keep.”

The soldier glanced at Bridget for confirmation, then hurried off.

Sherice led the way back up the stairs toward the keep. “The hall itself is in good shape, and the chimneys work, or they will after a little repointing, which will be nice on cold evenings. Off this way,” she gestured to the right, “is a space for the library, below what Sister Nightingale has claimed for her birds. Here at the end of the room, we’ll build a little platform, and that can be your seat when you must sit in judgment.”

Sit in judgment? That was one part of an Inquisitor’s duties Bridget had apparently not given enough consideration to. But she wasn’t about to admit that to Sherice. She nodded, instead. “That sounds like a good idea.”

“And up above,” Sherice went on enthusiastically, “there’s a lovely space, very private and secluded, just perfect for your quarters. Just tell me what you want, and I’ll put it in.”

Bridget frowned. What she wanted? She thought back to the Circle, to the narrow bed, the single trunk for her changes of robes and few other personal items, the thin walls … She had taken those as normal because they were all she’d ever known. What did she know about what she wanted? But Sherice was waiting, smiling, for an answer, and so Bridget mustered up a smile of her own and thanked the elf for everything she’d done for the Inquisition.

Harritt had come in and was approaching the two of them, and Sherice greeted him cheerily. “You ready to look over your space?”

“Looking forward to it.” He bowed to Bridget. “Inquisitor, have you seen it yet?”

“No. Why don’t you show me?”

Harritt led the way through the door and down a set of steps into a cavern below the main keep. He stood looking around him with a smile of satisfaction. “No more burning buildings for me. I’ve walked away from a few too many for one lifetime. You can have all the fire you want down here, and it wouldn’t reach the main building.”

Bridget paced the area—it seemed ideally suited, a broad expanse of flat stone, but the end was open to the weather. It was a beautiful view—a waterfall that spilled down to a river that snaked across the wintry valleys of the Frostbacks—but it would be awfully cold.

She said as much to Harritt, who snorted. “With all due respect, Inquisitor, you’ve clearly never spent a lot of time in a forge. Beastly hot and miserable, half the time. A bit of natural ventilation cooling down the place? Just what we’ll need.”

“Well, if you’re sure …”

“It’ll be all right,” he assured her. “Hardly needs any work at all. We can set up shop tomorrow and be right back in business by the next day. It’ll feel good to get a hammer in my hand again.” He nodded. “It’ll be better than Haven ever could have been. Not the way any of us wanted an upgrade, but … ever forward.”

“Yes.” Bridget smiled. “Ever forward. It’s a good motto.”

“This place down here—it was built for something big, almost like it was just waiting for the Inquisition. We’ll do our best for you, Inquisitor.” He hesitated, then said, “That’s strange to say. You were just Bridget before.”

“It’s even stranger to hear,” Bridget told him. “Largely because I still am ‘just Bridget’ … only with a fancier title.”

“You keep to that, then. We need you level.”

“I don’t know any other way to be.”

“And thank the Maker for that,” Sherice put in. “I … never had much dealing with mages before, but you—you make them look good.”

“Thank you,” Bridget responded, warmed all through. “I hope I can continue to do so. In the meantime, I’ll let you both get back to work.”

They nodded at her before beginning to confer on what remained to be done down here, and she climbed the steps back to the main hall.

As she walked, she thought of Leliana, of the darkness in her since Haven. That couldn’t be good for the Inquisition, or for Leliana herself. Bridget turned her steps through the empty space where workmen were building shelves for the library and climbed the stairs up to the Rookery.

Cullen was there, handing a scroll to Leliana. The two of them shared a sorrowful look. “I’m sorry,” Leliana whispered.

“So am I.” He passed Bridget with a small nod, and she could see a tear glistening on his cheek.

She looked inquiringly at Leliana, who said, “A list of those we lost.” She swallowed visibly. “You must blame me for this.”

“You seem to be doing a fine job blaming yourself; you don’t need me to do so as well.” Bridget shook her head. “We all saw who attacked us; we know exactly who to blame.”

Leliana turned away from her, head and shoulders drooping. “When the first of my lookouts went missing, I pulled the rest back, awaiting more information. I didn’t want to risk their lives. But if they’d stayed in the field, they could’ve bought the rest of us more time. Perhaps more lives would have been saved in Haven.”

“You can’t know that. Perhaps the lookouts would have died and nothing would have changed.”

“My people know their duty. They know the risks!” Leliana cried. Bridget was surprised at the depth of pain in the spymaster’s voice—not that she felt it, but that she was displaying it so openly. “They understand that the Inquisition may call upon them to give their lives.”

“Our people aren’t tools to be used and discarded,” Bridget argued. “We exist for them as much as for anyone else; we have a duty to look to their safety and well-being as best we can. Your instincts were right—their lives matter.”

Leliana looked at her, and Bridget was chilled, reminded of the way the spymaster had come to look like one of her own birds, cruel and predatory, in that dark future. She couldn’t let that happen to Leliana, and with her, the Inquisition. “Can we afford such sentimentality?” Leliana whispered. “What if Corypheus—“

“We are better than Corypheus.”

“I—if you say so.” Leliana sighed. 

“Can I help in any way?”

“No.” Standing up straighter, Leliana’s voice strengthened. “I will take your words, and your orders, to heart, Inquisitor. You may depend on me.”

“I’m glad.” Bridget left her to get back to work. Remembering the tear on Cullen’s face, she looked for him next, finding him in the courtyard standing over a pile of reports. A group of soldiers surrounded him, and he was barking orders. Bridget stopped to watch for a moment, sensing that work was a greater healing balm to Cullen than anything else could be at this juncture. Only when the soldiers scattered and he was alone did she approach.

Cullen turned to look at her, jumping immediately to business. “We could never have prepared for an Archdemon, or whatever that thing was, at Haven. But here … well, if Corypheus strikes again, we may not be able to withdraw. And I wouldn’t want to. We must be ready.”

“Cullen, we were all shaken by what happened.”

“Perhaps. But … I was the Commander.” He left it at that. Bridget knew what a terrible burden of guilt he carried, how much he blamed himself, and she knew that only more work, and some success, would comfort him. “We will not run from here, Inquisitor.”

“No,” she assured him, “we won’t. And remember, most of our people made it to Skyhold in the end. It could have been much worse.”

“Thanks to you.” He smiled at her. “Morale was low there for a while, but has improved greatly since you took on the role of Inquisitor.”

“It’s only been a day. I think morale has been improving since you and Josephine took on the role of building up Skyhold.”

Cullen chuckled. “Perhaps.” 

Bridget looked down at her hands, at the glow of the Anchor. “Everyone has so much faith in my leadership—more than I do, by far. I only hope … I only hope I’m ready.”

“Remember, you won’t have to carry the Inquisition alone, even if it feels like it now.” He nodded at her reassuringly. “We needed a leader; you have proven yourself. You fought off Corypheus, you led us to Skyhold, you have been out front speaking to people, becoming the face of the Inquisition, almost from the beginning. Whether you know it or not, you have earned this position many times over.”

“Thank you.” It was odd, being praised so by a Templar with little reason in his past to trust mages. Bridget found herself blushing a little, so she changed the subject. “If we need to start over, I’m glad Skyhold seems to be a good place to do it.”

“Yes,” Cullen agreed, “once repairs are complete, it will be a strong base of operations. When do you think you’ll want to get out into the field again?”

Bridget considered that. “Another week, perhaps.”

“Going forward, I will do everything I can to ensure the security of our people,” Cullen told her, and she could see by the intensity on his face that he was remembering Haven. “You have my word.”

“Your word is good enough for me,” she assured him.

In the distance, she saw Blackwall, and she could feel her pulse speeding up. They had been spending a great deal of time together, but neither of them had spoken about that night in his quarters. He seemed on edge, uncomfortable, and she hadn’t wanted to prod him to tell her what was going on because she felt he would be happier talking to her on his own time. But she was falling asleep at night dreaming of kissing him, dreaming of being held in his arms … and more. And from the look in his eyes occasionally, she thought he felt the same. At some point, they were going to have to discuss it.

Cassandra was closer, however, having a cup of coffee by the tables set out for eating, and Bridget wanted to know more about the former Seeker’s decision to step back from the leadership of the Inquisition she had begun, so she went over and poured herself a cup as well.

As they sat down across from each other, Cassandra said, “I hear Varric has invited a ‘friend’ to visit. Do you know who it is?”

“No.”

“It had better not be who I think it is. I’ll wring the little bastard’s neck.”

“Varric’s? Why?”

“Because I spent hours interrogating him, asking about Hawke, and he wasted time telling long exaggerated stories and claimed he didn’t know how to find the Champion. If he knew all along and was lying …”

“You don’t think he could have been trying to protect his friend?” Bridget asked.

“Perhaps. But the Inquisition—all of Thedas—desperately needed the Champion, and Varric lied to me!”

“You don’t know that for certain. And you don’t know what the Champion would have done if you had found him.”

Cassandra clearly wanted to continue arguing, but she took a deep breath and nodded. “I will reserve judgment until I have met him. There is no need to have Varric screaming ‘persecution’ yet again.”

“No, definitely not,” Bridget agreed. She looked down at her cup, unsure how to ask the question she most wanted the answer to. At last, she decided that since Cassandra favored the blunt approach, that was the direction she would go. “You didn’t join us for the meeting earlier.”

“I am not part of the Inquisition’s leadership.” 

“Why not? You began it!”

“Yes, I did. But I never had any intention of running it. I am …” She stopped, considering. “I was the Right Hand of the Divine. I did her bidding, and I like to think that I did it well. But I wouldn’t have wanted to be the Divine. I am too … straightforward, too blunt, too impatient to be the leader of an organization such as this one. I do my best work in support of those who lead, and that is where I intend to remain. In support of you, wherever you feel my talents are best applied.”

“As my Right Hand, then?”

“Something like that, yes. Although you are fortunate to have many hands. Cullen to raise the fist, Josephine to write the letters, Leliana to move secretly in the dark.”

“Very fortunate,” Bridget agreed. “So I didn’t step into any place you consider your own?”

“No, not at all.”

“And you aren’t going to be worried that my decisions will be different than yours would be?”

“They will be, for certain. They already have been. And you have always had good reason for them.” Cassandra nodded to her across the table. “You have had my support, and you will continue to have it, Inquisitor. I promise it to you.”

“Thank you. That means more than I can tell you.” Bridget smiled at her, and then changed the subject to a speculation on how long it would be until the road was completed and a steady stream of supplies began to come in. Both of them were longing for some real soap, having had to make do with a gloppy mess the kitchen had boiled down out of ashes since their arrival in Skyhold.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Blackwall leaned on the stone wall of the battlement, looking down at the courtyard where Bridget sat in animated conversation with Cassandra. Few people could bring the former Seeker out of her shell, but Bridget managed it quite neatly. She could bring anyone out of their shell, he thought. Not because she was particularly outgoing—he sensed that at heart she was fairly shy—but because she listened to what other people were saying, and she made an effort to respond to their interests and ideas.

He admired that about her. He admired her strength and courage and the stalwart way she’d stood up against everything that she had faced since he’d known her. He admired her heart and her brain and her slender body and her big blue eyes and her heavy coils of hair the color of tarnished gold. 

He admired her. In every way, in every part. The hours that he spent with her were the happiest he had known since … since his youth, if he was being truly honest. Thom Rainier had been many things, but he had rarely been happy. Too busy wanting more and more and more, filling his hours with wine and women and fine foods and rich things, never enough of any of it, until finally he had gone too far. Much, much too far.

And because he had been Thom Rainier—was still Thom Rainier, underneath everything that he called Blackwall—he was a danger to the Inquisition. Worse, a danger to the Inquisitor. If he was discovered … 

He should go, he told himself. He should leave the Inquisition and go back to the forests. He didn’t really want to be here, surrounded by people, anyway.

But he did. Over and above his attraction to Bridget and his desire, his need, to keep her safe, he had found something more like a home here in the Inquisition than he’d experienced since he first left Markham when he was little more than a boy. Just standing here, he could see below him Cullen and Cassandra, with whom he had sparred quite a bit, picking up some new skills from their different styles.

He could see the Iron Bull barking orders at his Chargers. The big Qunari was a lot more intelligent than he looked—or acted—and they had enjoyed quite a few debates on topics large and small over their ales. The Chargers themselves had been happy to have Blackwall sit with them in their nightly keg-taps, even if he only joined in a few of the songs. And Sera, the strange little elf, seemed to have taken him on as a personal project, leaving little gifts and tokens in the barn where he had taken up residence. Horsemaster Dennet liked to have him there, keeping an eye on the horses. They were beautiful animals, and he had found a peace among them there in that barn that he had never expected to feel.

Could he really give all this up out of fear? He knew in his heart that he didn’t want to … but he wasn’t entirely certain it was up to him.


	17. Trepidation

Bridget looked around the large, spacious room that was to be hers. Work had already commenced up here, flooring and walls being redone, doors to the two balconies being installed, the chimney being repointed. She had protested that her quarters were of possibly the least importance, but she had been talked over—by Sherice, who had taken this on as her personal project; by Josephine, who insisted the nobles needed a place of refinement to visit and it was easier to build the Inquisitor’s quarters first than to finish the entire guest wing; and by Cullen, who made no bones about his concern for Bridget’s safety as long as she remained in the temporary quarters she was currently living in. Unable to stand up to the three of them at once, she had given in and chosen paint colors—and she had to admit she loved watching it come together. A room of her very own, for the first time since she was a child!

She heard footsteps on the stairs below her, and looked down over the railing to see Josephine coming up, head bent over her ever-present board.

“Don’t trip on the steps,” she said. “We can’t have our Ambassador taking a tumble—I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Josephine smiled. “You would manage, I am certain. You seem quite resourceful.”

Bridget had no idea where that impression had come from, but she was learning that no one listened when she protested against their praise, so she left it alone. 

“I’ve had some news from the Imperial court,” Josephine went on, “and the political situation is … unstable. Dangerously so. We will need to keep a close eye on it if we are to anticipate the danger to the Empress.”

“How unstable?”

Josephine sighed. “The Empress’s cousin, the Grand Duke Gaspard, is leading a rebellion against her, making a bid for the throne, and a former servant of the Empress’s, a woman named Briala, appears to be fomenting an elven uprising. Meanwhile, the Orlesian court is watching us, waiting to see what we will do. We must not lose their interest—the court’s disapproval could be as great a threat as the Venatori, given our position here perched between Ferelden and Orlais. The Fereldan monarchs are pleased with the work we did in Redcliffe, and they are sympathetic to the cause of mages, so we have an edge there, but Orlais … we have yet to impress.”

“So you’re suggesting I should make some expeditions into Orlais, try to strengthen our ties there?”

“Exactly. In a few months, there is to be a Grand Masquerade at the Winter Palace in Orlais; Celene intends to hold peace talks there.”

“In the midst of a ball?”

Josephine smiled. “Balls are excellent places to play the Great Game, Inquisitor. It is the best way for her to ensure that every power in Orlais will be there when the negotiations are concluded.” The smile faded. “It is also the best place for an assassin to attempt to strike.”

“Then we need to attend this ball.” Bridget thought how odd it was that months ago, she knew almost nothing of Orlesian politics … and yet here she was today, embroiled in them. 

“I will arrange for an invitation, Inquisitor. Ah, a masquerade. It has been such a long time.”

“Do you miss Orlais?”

“Sometimes, yes.” A shadow passed over Josephine’s face. “Sometimes no. On the whole, I believe I would rather be here. If you will excuse me, Inquisitor?”

“I’ll come with you,” Bridget said, following her Ambassador down the stairs. She was late for a study session with Solas.

She found him in the atrium beneath the library. As he sometimes did, he appeared to come out of nowhere as she entered the room, smiling at her. “Hello.”

“I am sorry I’m late.”

“You have many calls on your time.”

“Too many,” Bridget agreed.

“They will only increase,” he pointed out. “Shall we begin?”

“Yes, of course.” Bridget drew her staff and began running through some of the forms Solas had taught her, although she didn’t use her magic. The forms themselves helped to build her muscle memory for later combat. “Can you tell me more about your studies of the Fade, Solas?” she asked. The curiosity had been building in her for some time, but she was shy around Solas, reluctant to ask him too many intrusive questions. He avoided answering them, anyway, most of the time.

This time, however, he looked at her thoughtfully, studying her as if to gauge how serious she was about the question. “You continue to surprise me; I enjoy your thirst for learning. I will tell you more … but preferably somewhere more interesting than this. Close your eyes.”

She did so, and was immediately taken by a dizzy sensation, as though she was whirling about like a child on a swing. When it stopped, she put a hand to her head and cautiously opened her eyes, surprised to find herself in Haven, or what looked remarkably like it. She winced at the memory, seeing the blasted ruins the dragon had left in place of the bustling camp she saw now. “Why here?”

“Haven is familiar. It will always be important to you.”

Bridget acknowledged the truth of that as he led her through the camp and down to the dungeon where she had first awakened to find her world—indeed, the entire world—irrevocably altered. 

“I sat beside you while you slept, studying the Anchor. You were a mystery then.” He looked at her sideways, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You still are.”

“I’m just me,” Bridget said.

Solas went on as though she hadn’t spoken. “I ran every test I could imagine, searched the Fade, yet found nothing.” His smile broadened slightly. “Cassandra suspected me of duplicity and threatened to have me executed as an apostate if I could not explain who you were and where your mark had come from and what it did.”

“Of course she did.”

He chuckled. “Yes.” Turning, he led her from the dungeon and back out into the sunny camp. “You were never going to wake up, I realized at last. How could you, a mortal sent physically through the Fade? I was frustrated, and frightened—for you and for the world. The spirits I might have consulted had been driven away by the Breach, and I was left to my own resources.” Solas shook his head. “I was ready to flee.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I told myself I would make one more attempt to seal the rifts. But my attempt failed, and I was at last convinced that no ordinary magic would affect them. I watched them expand and grow, helpless to do anything about them, and I resigned myself to flee—and then it occurred to me: the mark. I used it on your behalf, and it sealed the rift. I felt the whole world change in that moment.”

“And that was what woke me up?”

“I believe so.”

“Thank you, Solas. For … saving my life, for Skyhold, for everything you’ve taught me.”

He inclined his head gravely. “It has been my pleasure. And you are an unusually apt pupil.” He gestured around them. “Visiting me here, even as a mage—it should not have been so easy for you.”

“Here?” Bridget frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Where do you think we are? Certainly not at Haven—it no longer exists, at least, not in this state.”

“This is the Fade?” She felt foolish for not having realized it sooner. But it didn’t feel like the Fade, not as she knew it from her own dreams. It was clearer, sharper, more real.

“You asked for more knowledge of it … and here you are.” Solas smiled. “We can discuss it more—when you wake up.”

The dizzy sensation came back, and the next thing Bridget knew she was blinking sleepily up at Solas from the couch in his atrium. “That was … unusual.”

“For you.”

“Thank you for showing me.”

“Thank you for asking.” Solas looked up. “Ah, I believe you are wanted.”

“As always.”

“Get used to it.” He turned back to his work on the table in the center of the room as Dorian came in.

“Ah, there you are. I was told to bring you to the battlements.”

“The battlements?” Bridget repeated, getting up off the couch. “Why?”

“To quote: ‘I could tell you, but then I would have to kill you.’”

She raised her eyebrows. “Varric?” Only he was that cryptic.

“The very same. You will tell me what all this is about, won’t you?” Dorian asked. “I detest a mystery.”

“If I knew, I would, but since I don’t …” Bridget shrugged.

“Very well. I will escort you anyway and then perhaps learn for myself.” He put an arm around her waist and led her from the room, through the main hall where the hammers were going constantly; it was nearly impossible to hear oneself think. Bridget often wondered how Josephine got any work done in her office off the main hall.

It was a relief to step outside into the courtyard. She paused to look around, and Dorian watched her with amusement.

“They are busy little ants, are they not?”

“Not ants. People.”

“Yes, of course. I only meant … you have a great deal of work ahead of you.” His grey eyes were unusually serious as he looked at her. “You know that no one will thank you for any of it, don’t you?”

Bridget smiled. “That attitude must be why they kicked you out of the Imperium.”

Dorian laughed, showing his perfect white teeth. “They didn’t kick me out—I abandoned them, callously and cruelly depriving them of my presence.”

“And will you abandon us in the same way?” Bridget said lightly.

There was nothing light about Dorian’s face. “Not as long as Corypheus draws breath. Men like him ruined my homeland—I won’t stand by and let him ruin the world.”

“Good. I’m glad to have you, you know that.”

“Perhaps.” He nodded at her as they reached the battlements, and then turned and left her there in response to an unmistakable shooing gesture from the dwarf who awaited them there.

“Sunflower.”

“Varric. Is this your mysterious visitor, at last? I’ve nearly perished of curiosity.”

“It would take a lot more than curiosity to take you out. Come on.” He led her to a lesser-used portion of the battlements where the mortar was crumbling and several large chunks of wall appeared ready to fall far down to the rocks below. Two men stood there, very close to one another, having what appeared to be a tense conversation. A man and an elf, Bridget amended as she came closer and the elf turned away, every line in his posture conveying disapproval. He was striking, dark skin with lines engraved in it in white, and bright white hair shining in the sun. The other man was good-looking, too, slender and dark-haired, with a neatly trimmed black beard and piercing blue eyes. He grinned at Varric as they approached. 

“There you are.”

“Brought a friend,” Varric said. “Inquisitor, meet Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall.”

Gideon Hawke pushed himself off the wall and reached out a hand to Bridget. “He exaggerates. I’m hardly the Champion of anything any longer. And this is Fenris,” he added, gesturing to the elf, who was now leaning against a more stable-appearing area of the battlements with his arms folded across his chest. He gave Bridget a nod.

“Bridget Trevelyan. Inquisitor, apparently.”

“Yes, it’s amazing how quickly these things happen, isn’t it?”

“I thought Hawke might have some things to tell you about Corypheus,” Varric explained.

“You could have told her as much as I could, Varric. We did fight him together, after all.”

The dwarf sighed. “We dropped half a mountain on that bastard this time, and he’s still out there. I have to admit, at this point, I’ve got nothing.”

“Anything either of you know helps,” Bridget said. “Corypheus will keep killing people until he gets what he wants … and he wants to be a god.”

“Don’t they all.” Hawke sighed. “We fought Corypheus in a Grey Warden fortress in the Vimmarks. He had somehow used his connection to the darkspawn to influence the Wardens who were supposed to be guarding the place.”

“He messed with their minds and turned them against each other,” Varric said. He shuddered.

Bridget couldn’t help thinking of Blackwall. Was he vulnerable to Corypheus? The darkspawn had paid no attention to him at Haven, but he could have been distracted by the Anchor. “The Wardens seem to have largely disappeared,” she said. “Could they have fallen under his control again?”

Varric sighed. “Well, shit. Corypheus has the Venatori, the Red Templars, and now maybe the Wardens?”

“Wonderful,” Bridget agreed.

“I didn’t come this far just for bad news,” Hawke assured her. “I have a friend in the Wardens—he’s been investigating this red lyrium for me. The last time we spoke, he seemed worried about corruption in the Warden ranks. Since then, he’s gone silent.”

“Did he disappear with the rest of the Wardens?”

“I don’t think so. He told me he’d be hiding in an old smuggler’s cave near Crestwood. That’s where we’re headed next.”

“I appreciate the help.”

Hawke shook his head. “It’s as much for myself as it is for you. What happened in Kirkwall—“

“Was not your fault,” Fenris cut in, speaking for the first time. 

Hawke shot him a look. “Opinions differ. Nonetheless, Corypheus is my responsibility—I thought I had killed him before and I was mistaken. This time, I intend to help you make sure of it.”

“I look forward to it,” Bridget said grimly.

“We’re off, then,” Hawke said. 

“Send me a message from Crestwood when you find your Warden friend, let me know what you want me to do,” Bridget told him.

Hawke nodded, and he and Fenris left the battlements together. Varric watched them go, sighing. 

“Trouble in paradise?” Bridget asked.

“The elf wanted Hawke to go away somewhere safe, but Hawke insists on feeling responsible. It’s what got him into all that mess in Kirkwall in the first place. You couldn’t tear the elf away from Hawke’s side, but he intends to make his disapproval known all the way.” He shrugged. “Hawke would rather be scowled at by Broody there than made love to by anyone else, so it works out.”

“Lucky them.”

“In some ways. Took a lot of mess getting there.” 

“Was it good to see Hawke?”

“Yes and no. Brings back old times, but … brings back old times.”

“I think I see what you mean.”

Varric looked up at her, frowning a little. “You know, I don’t think I ever officially joined the Inquisition. The Seeker dragged me here, kicking and screaming—literally—and then, to piss her off, I refused to leave.”

“And thank the Maker for that,” Bridget said, smiling at him.

“Well, I don’t know. Bianca’s pretty useful, though. I guess my point is that … I don’t really know how to do this disciplehood thing. I’m a businessman—never really followed a Chosen One before.”

“Sure you have.” Bridget nodded her head in the direction Hawke had gone. “And, much like him, I don’t need a disciple. I need a friend.”

Varric grinned.”That, I can do. Just … don’t forget what you are to all those people down there. The Herald of Andraste is a symbol bigger than any of us.”

“And a heavy responsibility.”

“You can handle it. I have faith in you.” Varric looked up at her. “Care for a game of Wicked Grace while I put off getting back to work?”

Bridget was on the verge of agreeing when she looked down and saw a familiar dark head climbing the steps to the battlements. “Maybe later.”

Varric followed the line of her gaze, and groaned. “Here we go again.” He smiled at her, and headed toward the stairs.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Pacing the battlements had become a habit of Blackwall’s—partly because the Thom Rainier in him still remembered how to be a soldier and a commander, to keep an eye on the fortifications, to seek the high ground to watch for potential dangers, and partly because it kept him away from people and allowed him to pursue his endless debates as to whether to stay or go without distractions.

He hadn’t seen Bridget up here when he came up, and was thus surprised when she joined him—and also not surprised, since she so often found opportunities to be where he was. He liked it; he had to admit that to himself. He was most at peace with himself in her company. But he shouldn’t like it, and he shouldn’t be at peace, and he tried to tell himself that also as often as possible.

It was hard to remember with her golden head bobbing along at his shoulder. “I thought I’d find you up here,” she said.

“And so you have.”

“Lucky me.”

“Are you?” he asked mildly. Most women in her position wouldn’t think themselves lucky—there was a tremendous amount of work, and danger, ahead of them all, but mostly for her.

She sighed. “Sometimes.” 

“You’re the Inquisitor; many people would consider that lucky.”

As he had hoped, that made her smile. “Only if they didn’t know how much work it would be, and what the consequences might be if I fail.”

“You won’t fail,” he promised her. “Not with so many people here ready to help you succeed.”

“I hope you’re right.” 

He watched her as she looked out over the mountains. Toward Haven, he noticed. “We’ll be able to see Corypheus coming from miles away,” he assured her.

“On the other hand … that means he can also see us from miles away.” She stopped walking, leaning against the stones as she searched the clear blue sky for some sign of incoming danger.

Blackwall thought of her pale, frightened little face at Haven, of the stiffness in her spine as she left the Chantry to put her life on the line for all of them. He put his hands on her shoulders, turning her around to face him. “Let him come. I swear, I’ll take the twisted bastard down, even if I have to die to do it.”

Her eyes met his, her face determined. “I don’t intend to lose anyone else to Corypheus.” She took one of his hands in both of hers, the small cold fingers wrapping around his larger ones. “Especially not you.”

The moment stretched between them. Blackwall found himself unable to breathe. He wanted what was there in her eyes, the invitation and the longing and the concern for him—but he deserved none of it, and he dared not tell her why. With all the strength in him, he summoned his voice. “You can’t afford to think I’m special.”

“I can’t help it.”

He tugged his hand out of her grasp, shaking his head. “I’m a soldier, no different than any soldier lost at Haven.”

“You know that’s not true. You know you’re more than that to me.” The words were flat, matter-of-fact, but she meant them.

Blackwall sighed, looking down at his boots. “I am … fond of you, it’s true, but … we can’t let this go any further. This … whatever you want this to be—” He steeled himself against the hurt, wondering look in her blue eyes and the treacherous pain in his own heart. “It’s impossible.”

“Why? I know you have feelings for me.” She was holding on to her composure, but it was a tenuous hold, and without thinking, he reached for her hand.

“My lady, don’t do this.” The endearment dropped from his lips unnoticed as he tried to spare her from inflicting pain on herself—pain that was far more than he deserved from her, or from any woman. “You are the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste. Even now, there are people flocking to your banner, ready to serve you. To die for you.”

“I don’t want that! I never wanted that,” Bridget protested. “I don’t want anyone to die for me.”

“If you are to prevent that,” he told her, “we must remain focused on the task at hand.”

“You’re asking me to be superhuman, to be above emotion. I’m not like that—I can’t be like that. And I don’t believe you are, either.”

He didn’t bother to point out that he had spent what felt like a lifetime alone in the wilderness, learning to live without emotion. Now that he was here, with her, emotion had come flooding back into his life and his heart, and it was as much as he could do to keep his head above water. “I wish it were simple,” he said. “Believe me, I do. But it’s not.” He dropped her hand and stepped away from her. “We are both bound by duty—our lives aren’t ours to live. Not as long as … Not with Corypheus out there, threatening the world. Please, don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

She wanted to argue, he could see that. She was a stubborn, willful woman when she wanted to be, when she wanted something, and he had to admit there was a deep pride in being something she wanted. But he held firm, as he had to, and at last she sighed.

“Fine. If that’s the way you want it. It’s time to get back to work, anyway. We leave for the Exalted Plains in the morning.”

He nodded. “As you wish, my lady.”

Only when she was gone and he stood alone on the battlements did he realize he had just promised to go to Orlais with her. Briefly, he considered backing out on some pretext … but he couldn’t do that to her. He watched her walk across the courtyard far below and felt his chest tighten at the realization that somehow he had come to fear losing her more than he feared being found out. He wondered how long it would take for that to come back to bite him.


	18. The Exalted Plains

The ride to the Exalted Plains was a long one, although the worst part was coming down the mountains from Skyhold. The road wasn’t completed—on the Orlesian side, it had barely been started—and the horses had to pick their way carefully along the narrow paths. Blackwall thought it had quite likely been a mistake to bring the Iron Bull along with them; the big Qunari required a massive horse, and his animal was far less agile than the other three. But the Iron Bull was also well aware of the limitations, and he got down and walked, slogging through the snow in his battered boots, fairly frequently, leading the horse through some of the worst parts … and only occasionally snagging his horns on low-hanging branches and inconveniently placed rock formations.

It was a relief to be on the roads of Orlais … or it would have been if Blackwall hadn’t felt the need to keep tugging on his beard, reassuring himself that Blackwall covered Thom Rainier thoroughly enough that even his own men were unlikely to recognize him. He knew, though, and nothing would take that uneasy awareness of what he had done away.

Fortunately, the Exalted Plains were broad and windy and largely unpopulated, and those who did live there occupied small villages and had likely never been away from them.

The biggest town of the lot had nearly been destroyed by demons and Venatori, and while the population remained hidden, from their corners and crevices curious eyes stared at the Inquisition’s people—beautiful but delicate Bridget with her flashing green hand; the Iron Bull, huge and exotic and scary; Blackwall himself, with his bushy beard, looking as though he had spent a lifetime in the woods; and Sera, bouncing around in her tattered clothes, giggling at everything. Together, they made a grouping the citizens of the Plains wouldn’t soon forget.

Especially when they found a rift in the center of town, spewing demons. Immediately, they got to work, Sera with her arrows, the Iron Bull and Blackwall with their swords, and Bridget using the Anchor to close the rift. It took some work, but eventually they got it closed, and the demons killed, and the townspeople began to come out of hiding, slowly, a few at a time.

They were hesitant to approach Bridget, but she went toward them, smiling, speaking softly in Common. It was a halting conversation, because only some of the villagers spoke Common; most of them spoke only Orlesian. Blackwall understood them, of course, but he wasn’t certain how he would explain his fluency in the language. “I wasn’t always a Grey Warden” would take him only so far.

“You might as well go help out,” the Iron Bull said. “I can see you want to.”

“Why don’t you? You’ve worked in Orlais.”

“Is there anything more suspicious than a Qunari who speaks your language?” He gestured with his chin at a young woman with a baby on her hip, and she fled in terror just because he looked at her. “She would never believe I knew Orlesian for any purpose that wasn’t harmful. But you … you could be anyone. You probably are.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you talk about Grey Wardens and honor and sacrifice and griffons, but you’re still not convinced.”

Blackwall took a breath, not wanting that damnably sharp single eye to see how close to the heart the words had come. “I’m not?” he said lightly.

“You know what I mean.”

“And you can tell because?” He really wanted to know. It was an open secret that the Iron Bull was a Qunari spy; Blackwall was curious as to what it was about him that tipped a seasoned spy off to there being more—or, rather, less—to him than met the eye. 

The Qunari grinned widely. “I’m a people person.”

Blackwall rolled his eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“That, too. Now go help the Inquisitor speak to these people so we can all get out of here.”

He did so, making his Orlesian a bit more halting than it really was. It helped that he wasn’t familiar with the particular dialect they used here, so he did have to stop and think about inflections and specific wording. Eventually, they managed to get the locations of some other rifts from the villagers. They were also warned about a clan of Dalish camped along the river, told to keep their distance.

As they left the village, the people already coming out and getting started cleaning up and rebuilding, Bridget said, “What is it they don’t like about the Dalish?”

Sera laughed. “You’re serious?”

“Yes.”

“They’re elves, for one. They’re elves who don’t live the way people think elves should live, for two. And they hate everyone who isn’t a fancy nature-loving stream-pissing can’t-get-over-themselves elf, for three.” Sera spat on the ground. “Don’t blame the villagers. Or the Dalish. None of ‘em can see over their noses.”

Bridget frowned, trying to make her way through the tangle of Sera’s comments. “So, we should go see the Dalish? Or … we shouldn’t?”

“We should go, boss, but we should be prepared for them to spit in our faces,” the Iron Bull explained.

“Oh. Well, that’ll be a new experience, I suppose.” Bridget squared her shoulders and moved on ahead. The Iron Bull went with her, his horned head bobbing along so far above hers it was almost comical. Blackwall could hear him talking, giving her pointers on how to not piss off the Dalish.

“You really don’t like them much, do you?” he asked Sera.

“Who, the prissy elves with their … elfyness? Not hardly. Better than nobles, though.”

“Anything’s better than nobles,” Blackwall agreed. “Sitting in palaces, sipping fine wine while people starve outside their gates. Letting good soldiers die in senseless wars over who gets the fancy chair.”

Sera stared at him, her big eyes wide. “You tell ‘em, beardy.”

Blackwall realized he had probably said too much, and he tried to reel himself back in. “Still … better to have them on your side than not. Dogs, all of them … and even the primped and powdered ones have teeth.”

“Yeah, but they have leashes, too. They just don’t know they do. But you give a copper to the right laundress, and won’t they jump.” Sera giggled.

“Good point.”

A group of elven hunters were ahead of them now, fighting off a pack of demons. Bridget hurried ahead to help, the others with them, and after a brief scuffle the demons were down. The elves thanked them gravely, and sent a message along to the Dalish clan’s Keeper, should Bridget and the others run into the clan. Blackwall was reminded of his occasional meetings with the Dalish when he lived in the forests. They were polite enough, as long as you kept yourself to yourself, but not forgiving of trespassers. He wondered how the clan would react.

They had reached the river now, making their way upstream. Bridget stooped every now and again to pluck some spindleweed and elfroot and embrium and tuck them away in her pack. For potions, Blackwall presumed. He bent to pick up a rock, turning it over in his hands, and then he caught up to her and gave it to her. “Here.”

“A rock?” She raised an eyebrow at him.

“It’s obsidian. Good solid material. Harritt’ll like it.”

Bridget smiled. “I’m sure he will … but won’t it get awfully heavy, toting bags of rocks around everywhere we go?”

“Maybe not bags. Maybe just a few really nice ones.”

She nodded. “I suppose it can’t hurt.” Her eyes lifted, meeting his, and he could see a shadow in her blue eyes. He had hurt her, there on the battlements, and he cursed himself for a clod and an idiot. 

But before she could speak, the Iron Bull bellowed back to them, and Bridget hurried to catch up with him.

They had found the Dalish camp, and the elves stared at them as they walked in. Many of the stares were reserved for Sera, Blackwall noticed. There was little love lost between Dalish and alienage elves, and since Sera claimed allegiance to neither, she failed to fit in anywhere. Except the Inquisition, Blackwall thought with an inward smile. The Inquisition seemed to have room for everyone.

A young lad had come up to Bridget, his eyes pinned to the flashing green mark on her hand. “You’re the Inquisitor! I mean …” He raised his eyes to look her in the face, blushing.

“I am, indeed. Bridget Trevelyan. And what’s your name?”

“Loranil. I’ve … I’ve heard so much about you and your Inquisition.”

“Have you?” Bridget looked surprised, and then flushed a little. “I mean, I’m sure you have.”

He smiled at her, forgiving her for the lapse. “There’s talk even among the Dalish.” He looked around, lowering his voice a little. “The clans worry about what it might mean for us. The Dalish, that is.”

“I hope we welcome everyone, Loranil. Look, see, I even travel with a Qunari.”

Loranil glanced at the Iron Bull. “Right. The way I see it, your Inquisition is the only thing trying to help the world.”

“I’m doing my best.” There was more of weariness in Bridget’s sigh than Blackwall would have liked to hear.

“I wish I could be a part of it,” Loranil blurted out.

“Good lad,” Blackwall commented, nodding approvingly. “The world doesn’t change without people to change it.”

“Yes, that’s it exactly! But it won’t happen.” He glanced over at a man in long, flowing robes who was making his way through the camp toward them. “Keeper Hawen won’t allow it. He doesn’t trust—”

“Anyone,” Sera said with a loud, impatient sigh. “We know.”

Loranil nodded, scuffing the ground with the toe of his boot, refusing to meet Sera’s eye.

“If you like, I could talk to your Keeper,” Bridget suggested.

Blackwall wished they’d brought Solas along. Although Solas didn’t seem any more one thing or the other than Sera was. But Bridget could manage, he was sure of it.

Loranil was less so, but eventually he agreed that she should at least ask the Keeper.

The prospects didn’t look good, Blackwall thought, surveying the Keeper’s frowning face. “My patience is thin, with all that has befallen,” he said. “Perhaps you should be on your way.”

“I wanted to introduce myself,” Bridget said. “I’m Bridget Trevelyan, with the Inquisition.”

Blackwall wondered when she would be comfortable introducing herself as the Inquisitor, although here the more humble assertion probably made her look better to the Keeper.

Keeper Hawen crossed his arms over his chest, not exactly inviting Bridget to continue … but not asking her to leave, either.

“What has befallen your clan?” she asked.

“The Orlesian war,” he spat, “and the demons. They hinder our progress. The armies cause rockslides; they dig ditches that trip the halla and destroy the aravels, making passage impossible. The demons frighten the halla and menace the people. And now the grounds of Var Bellanaris are infested by angry spirits from the Beyond.”

“I have some experience with spirits. If you’ll point me in the direction of Var Bellanaris, I can take a look.” She pronounced the unfamiliar words carefully, doing a good job of echoing the Keeper’s pronunciation.

He nodded briefly. “My clan and I would be most grateful. But be mindful of the resting places of our dead. Var Bellanaris is sacred ground.”

“I met a group of your hunters; they asked me to tell you that they are continuing to search for a safe route.”

The Keeper’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “They entrusted you with a message? That speaks well of you.”

“We gave them some assistance with some demons,” Bridget told him. 

“I see. Then we owe you our thanks.” 

“I also … I was speaking with young Loranil, and he expressed an interest in joining the Inquisition.”

Keeper Hawen sighed deeply. “Yes, I know he dreams of such a thing. But it cannot be. To send one of our young men out into the world, away from the ways of the People … No. I am sorry. Not while I am still uncertain of your intentions.”

To Blackwall, it said a great deal that the Keeper had gone to the trouble to frame the refusal so politely. He would encourage Bridget to come back once they had cleared the spirits from the burial ground and ask again.

“I see. Thank you for your time, Keeper.”

He nodded at her, and turned his back. The rest of the camp was busy, preparing to continue moving. Bridget spoke to several of them, giving freely from her store of elfroot and promising to have the Inquisition provide them with iron and leather once a camp had been set up in the Plains. Scout Harding was due out here with some of her people any day, Blackwall knew; the Dalish would have as much as they needed. He was pleased with that aspect of the Inquisition—whatever they had, they shared. And he had to think, however much he told himself that he was romanticizing her, that it came from the open mind and heart of the woman at the head of it. He was so proud of her. He only wished he could show her how much.

By the time they had reached Var Bellanaris and dealt with the demons there, it was dark. They made camp, the four of them, just outside the walls of the sacred space, roasting a rabbit Sera had shot with some onions Bridget had found growing wild and some of her herbs. 

Blackwall looked up to find the Iron Bull looking at him questioningly. “Something on your mind?”

“What’s the most limbs you’ve cut off something in one swing?”

Sera spat out a mouthful of rabbit, chortling aloud, and Bridget frowned. “What?”

“Just asking.”

“For the Wardens,” Blackwall said, “battle is a sacred duty, a vigil kept to guard the world against destruction. It’s not a game.” He gave the Iron Bull his best serious Warden face, and had the satisfaction of seeing the Iron Bull look uncomfortable for once.

“Right. Same here,” he said quickly.

Blackwall grinned. “Do heads count?”

He saw Bridget’s eyes widen, and Sera choked on another bite of food.

The Iron Bull grinned, reaching over to pound Sera on the back until she could breathe again. “Heads _absolutely_ count.”

“Then … three.”

“Nice! Down on the collarbone and through, right? That’s how I get the good ones.”

“Is this the kind of thing men, warriors, sit around and talk about all the time?” Bridget shuddered. “Maybe the Circle was the right idea after all.” But she was smiling at them, and Blackwall knew she didn’t mean it. She had come a very long way since her time in the Circle.

They hadn’t bothered to put up tents overnight, so as the fire crackled down to embers, Sera rolled herself up in blankets and was soon snoring happily away. The Iron Bull rose and stretched—a bit ostentatiously, Blackwall thought, not sure if the Qunari was being nice or a smartass or a bit of both—and turned in as well, requesting to be called for last watch.

“I guess that gives me first watch,” Blackwall told Bridget.

“And what watch do I get?”

“You get a good night’s sleep, Inquisitor.”

She shifted a bit closer to him on the ground. Their legs were nearly touching, and Blackwall left his where it was, although he knew he shouldn’t have. “What if I don’t want a good night’s sleep?” she asked him throatily.

He looked down at his hands. “I …” But the words wouldn’t come, the ones that would send her away for good. Maker help him, he didn’t want to.

“I know what you said, Blackwall,” she told him in a more normal tone. “I know it. But … I care for you, and … I don’t know if I can stop just because you tell me I have to. And … I think you feel the same.”

“I do,” he admitted softly, watching the flames dance ahead of him. They were mocking him, the fire so beautiful but so dangerous to reach for. “I shouldn’t—but I do.”

“And yet you push me away.”

“I have to. I hope you can forgive me.”

“I’m sure you have your reasons … I just wish you would tell me.” She was leaning against him now, one of her hands stealing over his. He closed his fingers around hers, looking at their two hands twined together, hers so slender and pale and his so big and browned.

“I know. I can’t just ask you to trust my reasons blindly.”

“You could; you’ve deserved as much. But I wish you wouldn’t.”

“I do owe you an explanation,” he said. “Who I am; what I am. But—not here. Not … not yet.”

Bridget removed her hand from his—slowly, so it didn’t feel like a rejection. More like a strategic withdrawal. “I understand. I—there are things I need to tell you as well, about my past. And … like you, I’m not sure I’m ready just yet.”

“Then—we wait?”

She nodded. “We wait.” A smile spread across her face and she chuckled suddenly. “It isn’t as though we don’t have plenty to occupy our thoughts.”

“No. And because we do, you need a good night’s sleep,” he told her, his tone brooking no opposition.

“Yes, serah.” Bridget got to her feet, leaving Blackwall there looking off into the distance and wishing to the Maker he’d lived a different life.

The morning found Blackwall feeling stiff from sleeping on the ground, to which he was no longer as accustomed as he used to be, but also cheerful and ready to face the day. Something about rising from a cold bed around the embers of a campfire felt right to him. As it should, after all that time.

It was a long day’s work. They had been asked to come here partially to give assistance to the Empress’s troops—their outposts around the Plains had been overrun by both demons and Venatori, and as they waded their way into the mess of the first set of ramparts it became clear that the dead were rising from their graves, to boot. 

The Iron Bull was in his element, swinging his blade with relish. Sera was quite obviously on the edge of panic when surrounded by the walking dead, but she got an arrow into the eye of one and it fell and that made her feel better. She could handle anything she could shoot, apparently. Blackwall respected that. 

They worked their way through the ramparts, farther and farther into the Plains, clearing out each of the ramparts as they went, and then picked their way carefully across a partially destroyed bridge in the direction of a garrison that hadn’t been heard from in some time.

More undead met them, so many that Blackwall felt serious concerns about the possibility of finding anyone alive inside the garrison. Bridget was tiring, clearly—her magic took more out of her than Sera’s bow, and she lacked the long-term strength and endurance conditioning that Blackwall and the Iron Bull had. They altered their fighting style to protect her better, forming a wall of their bodies to make sure nothing got past and reached the Inquisitor.

At last, they made it to the inner portion of the garrison, and to their great relief, found the men barricaded inside. They were terrified, and exhausted, and starving, because they’d been hiding in there for days—but they were alive.

Walking back toward the village, the sounds of hammering already ringing through the air as the rebuilding was well under way, Bridget asked, “Can someone tell me why the Orlesians are fighting a civil war right now?”

“Well,” rumbled the Iron Bull, “don’t know about the timing so much, boss, but the reason is that Grand Duke Gaspard thinks he ought to have the throne, and Celene actually does have it and wants to keep it.”

“Why does he think he should have it?” Bridget flushed slightly. “Orlesian politics and history weren’t part of my education.”

“The Grand Duke is the eldest grandchild of the former Emperor,” Blackwall explained. “But Celene has the name; her line is through her father, Gaspard’s through his mother. He feels that if she can inherit as a woman, so could his mother have, and therefore it ought to be his throne.” He shrugged. “The Emperor didn’t care, from what I’m told. He liked Celene better, so … here we are.” Only when he stopped talking did he think that he probably shouldn’t have said anything. He braced himself for another round of questions, but apparently his companions had given up wondering. He wasn’t certain if he should be relieved or concerned by that.

Bridget seemed to accept that explanation. She explained, “Apparently we’re going to be attending a ball at the Winter Palace later in the year, and we have quite a few more requests for assistance in Orlais. It seems that I should know what the situation is.”

“You’re better off talking to Josephine, then, or Leliana,” Blackwall told her. “They’re the experts.”

“Cassandra knows a few things, too,” the Iron Bull put in. “And the Chargers and I have spent a fair amount of time in Orlais.” He grinned. “I’m exotic.”

Bridget frowned at him, then chuckled when she caught his meaning. “Lucky you.”

“Sometimes.” He gave an exaggerated shudder. “Sometimes, not so much.”

By midday, they were back in the Dalish camp, met by the Keeper with significantly more warmth than he’d displayed yesterday. “We appreciate the job you did in Var Bellanaris, Inquisitor,” he said, “and that you kept your campfire outside the bounds. Your respect and your willingness to help make me believe that young Loranil could learn a thing or two from being part of your organization. For a time,” he added severely. “The Dalish way of life depends on our young people.”

“I understand,” Bridget assured him. “We will respect his beliefs, and do our best to send him back to you when the work of the Inquisition is done.”

“And when will that be?”

“When we have defeated Corypheus, the being who created the Breach in the sky.”

Keeper Hawen nodded. “He meddled with magics that are beyond his comprehension; he threatens us all. That is a goal I approve of.” He beckoned to Loranil, who came running. “I have decided to allow you to work with the Inquisition, if that is your wish.”

“Keeper! I—Thank you.” Loranil beamed. 

“Excellent! I’m glad to have you with us, Loranil. The Inquisition is setting up a camp here in the Plains—report to Scout Harding and let her know your capabilities, and she’ll find you a suitable task. You can also pass on the request that the Inquisition supply your people with iron and leather to repair the aravels.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll be happy to!” Loranil crossed an arm over his chest and bowed to her, and Bridget returned the gesture.

Back in the village, they retrieved their horses. In Blackwall’s opinion, the amount they were charged for a few days’ care and keep was highway robbery, but Bridget paid it cheerfully. He asked her about it afterward—carefully, as he wasn’t certain if her years in the Circle had left her with an altered attitude toward the value of coin—and she said that she was happy to pay a little extra if it helped them get back on their feet again. He admired her altruism, but wondered what it meant for the coffers of the Inquisition in the long run.

Still, he suspected Josephine had a fairly tight hand on the purse-strings, and if Bridget went out of bounds, she would hear about it from the Ambassador. He was grateful that the Inquisitor had so many people looking out for her. He was only one of the many … something he felt the need to keep reminding himself of.

He looked down at his hand, remembering the way hers had felt in it, the easy and natural way she had leaned against his shoulder, how much he had wanted to put his arm around her and rest his cheek against her hair and … recite her some Orlesian love poetry.

Much as he had wanted to push whatever was between them away, it was clear it wasn’t going anywhere. He was in this so deep he hadn’t even batted an eye when she mentioned having to go to the Winter Palace, although Thom Rainier had no business whatsoever showing his face at Halamshiral.

He had to face it: He was going to have to tell her something eventually. But how much, and when?


	19. Potentially Life-Changing

Coming back to Skyhold felt to Bridget like coming home. She spurred her horse on ahead, excited to see what had been done in her absence—and was stunned by the extent of the work. So much building and shaping and repairing! Her own quarters were astonishingly beautiful, and so peaceful. Bridget was ashamed that she actually had some trouble sleeping in them, it was so quiet. She was sure she would get used to it, and to the luxuriously soft bed.

The main hall was still filled with scaffolds, but fewer than there had been, and Harritt was pleased as punch with the Undercroft. The tavern had been finished and was in full swing. Josephine reported that there had been a major spike in morale once the Inquisition boasted a proper tavern. Seeing how it bustled, Bridget wasn’t surprised.

She hadn’t been back in Skyhold for more than a day when the question of the strange boy, Cole, who had come to them before the attack on Haven, thrust itself into Bridget’s notice. Bridget liked Cole, what she’d seen of him. He seemed to disappear a lot, but when she did see him, he was always trying to help. That was the spirit she liked to foster in the Inquisition.

She said as much to Vivienne, who looked at her condescendingly. “You know that this thing is not a stray puppy you can make into a pet. It’s a demon. It has no business being here.”

“Wouldn’t you say the same of an apostate?” Solas countered. They’d been in the middle of a rapidly heating debate on the topic when Vivienne had called Bridget over to join them.

Cassandra had been listening to them both quietly, and now she turned to Bridget. “I wondered if Cole was perhaps a mage, given his unusual abilities.”

“He can cause people to forget him, or even fail entirely to notice him,” Solas said. “These are not the abilities of a mage. I believe Cole is a spirit.”

“I said it is a demon,” Vivienne corrected sharply.

“The truth is far more complex than either term.”

“Cole saved a lot of lives at Haven by warning us about Corypheus,” Bridget pointed out. 

“And how many will it later claim?” Vivienne demanded. “We cannot trust it here!”

“You are being too simplistic,” Solas said. “Demons normally enter this world by possessing something. In their true form, they look bizarre. Monstrous.”

“But Cole looks like a young man. So is this possession?” Cassandra’s hand went to the hilt of her sword.

Soilas shook his head at her, and at the hand poised to draw the weapon. “It is not. He has possessed nothing and no one, and yet he appears human in all respects.” He looked at Bridget. “Inquisitor, Cole is unique in my experience … and more than that, he wishes to help. I suggest you allow him to do so.”

“I would like to talk to Cole and see what he has to say for himself. Do you know where he is now?”

All three of them looked at each other and shrugged; Cole appeared when he felt needed, apparently, and at the moment, he didn’t seem to feel they needed him. Then, out of the corner of her eye, Bridget saw movement. Cole was near the surgeon’s tent, standing and watching those still recovering from their wounds at Haven and those who had been injured in the building process. Not many, Bridget was pleased to see, but there had been some.

She walked across the lower courtyard to join him.

Without looking at her, Cole said softly, “So many soldiers at Haven fought to protect the pilgrims so they could escape.” His eyes seemed to fasten on one particular fallen soldier. “Choking fear. Can’t think from the medicine, but the cuts wrack me with every heartbeat. Hot white pain, everything burns.” The soldier was moaning softly, the moans mingling with ever harsher and louder breaths. “I can’t, I can’t,” Cole said, his voice rising in volume, “I’m going to … I’m dying, I’m …” The soldier’s head rolled to the side and he gave his last breath. “Dead,” Cole finished.

“You can feel all that?” Bridget could only imagine what it must be like to feel someone else’s pain that viscerally. No wonder Cole wanted to help so badly.

He nodded his head toward another soldier. “Every breath slower. Like lying in a warm bath. Sliding away. Smell of my daughter’s hair when I kiss her good night.”

And then she was gone, too, her eyes closing.

“Nothing could be done?” Bridget asked.

“No. I wanted to help, but … there was nothing I could do.” Cole knelt by a third person, gently putting a waterskin to the man’s lips. He drank greedily, closing his eyes with a satisfied sigh and lying back when he’d had his fill.

“Is that what you want to do, be a healer?”

“They don’t remember me,” he said. “But it’s all right, because they don’t hurt as much when I go.” He looked up at Bridget from under his vast floppy hat. “I used to think I was a ghost. I didn’t know. I made mistakes … but I made friends, too. Then a Templar proved I wasn’t real. I lost my friends. I lost … everything.”

Bridget decided in that moment that this spirit, this strange boy with the open heart, was worth keeping around. “You’re real to me, Cole. And if you’re willing to stay, the Inquisition could use your help.” 

His eyes widened as if he hadn’t expected the offer. “Yes! Helping. I help the hurt, the helpless. I will listen for the ones who need me, and help them.”

“Can you listen to anyone’s mind?”

“No. They have to need me.”

“I imagine there’s no shortage of people here who need you.”

Cole nodded. “Pain. Fear. Sadness. Guilt. Anger. Hurt. Things I can fix.” He turned his head to look at her. “I can help you, if you want.”

Bridget held her breath. Did she need help? She was frightened of being Inquisitor, and she felt the absence of her child at the back of her mind in every moment … but overall, she was coping. She could handle them. “I’m all right.”

“Yes. For now.”

She left him there—or he disappeared, she wasn’t sure which—and headed up to the library. She and Dorian had agreed to meet for a game of chess, but she found him slumped in a chair in an alcove, a letter dangling from his fingers, his other hand over his face.

Bridget considered walking away … but she had the sense that too many people had walked away from Dorian in the course of his life. She didn’t want to be another one. “Everything all right?” she asked softly. 

He looked up, his eyes wet with tears. “It’s … regarding Felix. Alexius’s son.”

“Oh, no. Is he—?”

Dorian nodded. “He went to the Magisterium. He stood on the Senate floor and told them of you. A glowing testimonial, so I’m told. And then … the Blight caught up with him.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“He was on borrowed time anyhow,” Dorian said. He passed his hand over his face to wipe away the telltale marks of his tears.

“That doesn’t mean you can’t regret his death.”

“He was the best of what Tevinter has to offer: those who put the good of others above themselves. With him around, you knew things could be better.”

“In that case, he should be an example for others to follow.”

“Yes. Yes, he should.” Dorian forced a smile. “I could spread the word—the Cult of Felix could be spawned within a matter of days.”

“I’ve heard worse ideas.”

This time the smile was almost genuine. “Probably true. And you’re right, his actions should not be forgotten.” He reached his free hand up to pat hers. “Thankfully, Felix wasn’t the only decent sort kicking around Thedas. I regret that I’m not feeling quite up to chess this afternoon, however. I imagine you can find a way to fill the time?”

“Yes, but not nearly so enjoyably,” Bridget told him. “The calls on the Inquisitor pale in comparison to time spent with you.”

“You flatter me.” But to some purpose, it seemed; the light was back in his eyes, and he was studying the books with interest again.

Bridget made her way up to the Rookery to check in on Leliana. The Spymaster, too, it seemed, was mourning those lost. She was flipping through a pile of old letters in careful, beautiful handwriting. As Bridget approached, she looked up. “Did you need something, Inquisitor?”

“Just wanted to see how you are.”

“Ah. I’m afraid you have caught me wallowing in nostalgia.” She gestured to the letters. “Justinia.”

“I’m sorry.”

“As am I.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“Are you certain this is something you want to hear?”

Bridget nodded. “Very much so.”

“You know that I was there when the Hero of Ferelden defeated the Archdemon. We won the day, and I thought the Maker smiled on me. When the Divine requested my help, I went to her. I owed her that—and much more. I sacrificed so much to do the Maker’s work … but now Justinia is dead. When she died I was angry. I felt betrayed. But … I should never have let my emotions get the better of me. I’m sorry.”

“It sounds as though you should be apologizing to her, not to me,” Bridget said gently.

“Perhaps so.” Leliana carefully bundled up the papers and tucked them away in a pigeonhole. “Now, enough of this. Let us think more pleasant thoughts. Like the work we have to do, no?” She gave Bridget a remarkably impish smile, which Bridget returned with some surprise. It was the lightest she had ever seen her spymaster.

“Pleasant is exactly the word I would have used.”

“Good. Then shall we go over the latest intelligence?”

They worked together for a good hour, and then Bridget excused herself, heading down the long curving stairs. A page met her as she reached the ground floor, with a note from Cullen asking her to meet him in his office. Curiosity piqued, she took the recently repaired bridge across the courtyard, knocking gently on Cullen’s door.

“You asked to see me?”

He was standing before his desk, fists braced on the surface. Bridget noticed it was unusually clean; normally there were piles of papers, but today all she saw was a box lying open in front of him.

“As leader of the Inquisition, you …” he began slowly, each word clearly painful. “There is something you should know.”

“Of course. Whatever it is, I’m willing to listen.”

“Thank you.” He paused, seeming uncertain how to proceed, then spoke again in a singsong, as if he was reciting from a textbook. “Lyrium grants Templars our abilities, but it controls us as well. Those cut off suffer. Some go mad … others die.”

Bridget realized that the box on his desk was lyrium paraphernalia, and she stared at it in horrified fascination. The mages all knew the Templars took it, but to imagine Cullen going through those motions—it was sickening. A man that in control of himself—it didn’t seem right.

Cullen went on. “We have secured a reliable source of lyrium for the Templars here. But I … no longer take it.”

That was a surprise. Bridget’s eyes flew from the box to Cullen’s face, understanding now the lines of pain in it. “You stopped?”

“Yes. When I joined the Inquisition. It’s been …” He closed his eyes, counting, then gave up. “Months.” 

“Cullen, if this can kill you—“

He shook his head. “It hasn’t yet. Although at times I thought I might wish it had. After what happened in Kirkwall, I couldn’t—I will not be bound to the Order, to that life, any longer. Whatever the suffering, I accept it,” he added, his voice getting stronger. He stood up straight, meeting Bridget’s eyes squarely. “But I would not put the Inquisition at risk. I have asked Cassandra to watch me. If she believes my ability to lead has been compromised, I will be relieved from duty.”

“Are you in pain?” Bridget asked.

“It is kind of you to ask … but it’s nothing I can’t endure.”

“In that case—thank you for telling me. I respect what you’re doing. If there’s any way I can help …”

He held up a hand, shaking his head. “I merely wished you to know, so that you aren’t taken by surprise if … the worst should happen.”

“It won’t. I believe in you.”

Cullen looked startled, and pleased. “Thank you, Inquisitor.”

Bridget had heard that Cassandra and Varric had gotten into a fistfight while she was gone, presumably over him inviting Hawke to Skyhold. From what she’d been told, Cassandra believed that if Hawke had been found in time for the Conclave, presumably he could have saved the Divine. More likely, Hawke would have died, too, Bridget thought. 

Between that and this thing about Cullen and the lyrium, she thought it was high time she had a chat with Cassandra. She found the Seeker in her rooms above the blacksmith shop. “You’ve been busy while I was gone.”

“What? Oh, you have spoken to Varric.”

“No, but I heard what happened. This is about Hawke?”

“Yes. And no. Mostly it is about Varric lying to me, over and over again, and my believing him. And in the end, it is my own fault, because I never explained to him why we needed Hawke so badly. I gave Varric no reason to trust me.” She sighed heavily. “I should have been more careful. I should have been smarter! In the end, I don’t believe I deserve to be here.”

“Without you, there is no Inquisition,” Bridget said. “You began it; you gave it its voice and its first mandate, its first commandment. You are too hard on yourself.”

“But I want you to know, I have no regrets. I realize my behavior might make it seem … but I think you are what we needed, and I am proud to serve at your side.”

“I’m proud to have you here,” Bridget assured her. 

“You are … not what I would have pictured, but I hope I have learned that I know less than nothing.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. And you have to know something—I’m told Cullen has you watching him for signs of lyrium withdrawal?”

As she had hoped, mention of a practical matter pulled Cassandra out of her doldrums. “Cullen,” she snorted. “He suffers from an excess of honor.”

“Now there’s the pot calling the kettle black.” Bridget smiled. “But you think he’s all right?”

“I do.” 

“Good. Let me know if anything changes?”

“Of course, Inquisitor. And … thank you.”

“I did nothing but listen.”

“Often, that is everything.” Cassandra smiled.

Bridget found Varric in the main hall; he had taken one of the tables—the one nearest the fire, naturally—for his own. Bridget ladled herself a bowl of soup and took a piece of bread and carried them over to the table.

Varric looked up at her and groaned. “You’ve come to give me one of your Inquisitorial lectures, haven’t you?”

“Do I lecture? I didn’t think I lectured. Do you think everyone thinks I lecture?”

He shook his head. “No, of course not. Never mind me. I’m just feeling guilty for letting the Seeker get to me.”

“I think she’s calmed down.”

“Has she? Took you to do it, then.”

“Or some time and space. She feels guilty over the Divine’s death, and is looking for something she could have done that might have changed it.”

“Well, she’s not the only one.” 

“It was Corypheus’s fault, Varric.”

At the mention of the name, Varric winced. “Corypheus is back. You know that’s my fault, too.”

Bridget had to finish chewing a bite of bread, shaking her head vehemently, before she could say, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not being ridiculous.”

“You said he was a darkspawn … or a magister. He seems to think he’s both. What is he really?”

“Your guess is as good as mine—or his, for that matter. I don’t think even he knows what he is. I’m not sure a word’s been invented yet that would describe him.”

“Evil works.”

“Yeah, I suppose so.” He looked at her across the table as she ate her soup. “You know, we didn’t just think Corypheus was dead. He was dead. No pulse, no breath, full of stab wounds. There wasn’t a lot of room for doubt.” Varric sighed. “It makes me wonder. I thought the Wardens imprisoned Corypheus to use him … but what if they did it because he can’t be killed?”

“Well, you’re just full of cheery thoughts today, aren’t you? Nothing is unkillable,” Bridget said determinedly, hoping she wasn’t wrong.

“I’m not so sure about that. Do the things in the Fade really die? Maker’s breath, what have I let loose?”

“It isn’t your fault.”

“I was the one who led Hawke to Corypheus. If I hadn’t tracked the Carta to that ruin …”

“Someone else would have,” Bridget told him firmly. “Corypheus wanted to be found. Someone would have, sooner or later.”

“If you say so, Sunflower.” He rattled the papers in front of him. “I’m going to try to get some work done here. You let me know when you want something shot.”

“Will do.” Her bowl of soup was empty, anyway, so Bridget got up and put it away and sought the quiet of her room for an early bedtime. A letter was waiting for her on her desk, in Malachy’s secretary’s neat, plain writing. Bridget eagerly tore it open.

_Dear Bridget,_  
_We hear that you have been made Inquisitor. This is surprising, but we are of course quite pleased if it is true. Naturally, whatever support we can give you and your organization we are happy to provide._  
_Life here goes on as usual. Our young Declan continues to grow rapidly—he has been through two full wardrobes just this fall. He is learning much from his new tutor, and I enjoy his bright young mind. He is full of questions, particularly about the Inquisition. He feels a connection to it, knowing his aunt is such an important part, and we are kept busy reading up in advance of the next onslaught of his curiosity._  
_I hope this finds you well and that you keep so. You are doing the Maker’s work, sister, and I have never been more proud of you._  
_Affectionately,_  
_Malachy_

Bridget clasped the letter to her chest, her eyes filling with tears. She could see Declan in her mind’s eye, taller, but still with his head full of golden curls, asking question after question. How she wished she could be there to answer them, hold him in her arms and tell him all about the Inquisition. Better yet, show it to him, give him the tour and let him meet all her companions … how proud he would be of his—aunt. 

All her dreams came crashing down around her. She would never show Declan her life and have him understand it as he should. He would always think of himself as Malachy and Deirdre’s son.

Her happiness at the image of him in her mind ebbed away, and she went to bed, curling her hand around the locket with his picture in it, dreaming of a life that never could be.

The next morning, she met Josephine in her office bright and early, as scheduled. She was sitting in judgment today—her first trial as Inquisitor, and was nervous and sick about it.

“Are you certain this is necessary? And that it has to be … public? I … It seems as though there are already enough lives in my hands.”

Josephine put her hands on Bridget’s shoulders, looking her in the eye, her tone firm. “You are a beacon of law, Inquisitor, as others retreat from responsibility. You must let them see the way you think, and there must be no indication of secrecy in your decision-making. However, it needn’t be bloody. The Inquisition’s sovereignty is derived from the allies who validate it. You are both empowered—and bound. Justice has many tools. If their application is clever, execution may even seem merciful by comparison. Be creative, Inquisitor.”

Bridget sighed. “I will do my best. Let’s get this started, before I think better of it, and run screaming back to the Circle.”

“I can’t imagine you doing so.”

“No, I suppose I can’t, either, but occasionally it’s a relief to believe I could.”

Josephine lifted her eyebrows in delicate disagreement, and moved off toward the main hall.

The Inquisition was assembled there, ready to see Bridget in the high seat for the first time. She walked through them, focusing on keeping her breathing even, and sat down. It was a fairly comfortable chair, which was nice. But she felt exposed, sitting in front of all these people who were standing.

Josephine raised her clipboard, reading from it. “This was a bit of a surprise, Inquisitor. This man was discovered attacking the building. With a goat.”

“With a—?”

“Goat, Inquisitor, yes. He comes from the bogs of Ferelden, the Fallow Mire, I believe it is called.” 

Two soldiers brought forth a man in the distinctive armor of the Avvar. Bridget remembered them from her time in the Fallow Mire—they had captured a troop of Inquisition soldiers, and she’d had to fight the leader, she and her companions. He had been a young man, sure of himself, and they’d had to kill him, she remembered with some sorrow. Was this one of his clan? She had recruited one of them, a giant of a man calling himself Skywatcher. She wondered what he was doing for the Inquisition now. Working for Leliana, perhaps? She hadn’t seen him around Skyhold. She’d have to ask later.

Josephine continued, “This is Chief Movran the Under. When asked about his intentions, he claimed to feel slighted by the kiling of his Avvar tribesmen. Who repeatedly attacked you first,” she added, with a displeased look at the prisoner.

Bridget had the sense that this wasn’t quite the dignified way Josephine would have wanted her first judgment to go, but Bridget had no complaints. She quite liked the originality of attacking with a goat, and was glad that there was no one more powerful than the Avvar to offend with any potential misstep she might make.

“What should we do with him?” Josephine asked. “Where … should he go?”

There was a hint there, in her words and the emphasis behind them. Josephine thought the Avvar could be useful elsewhere, apparently. But where?

“Chief Movran,” she said, “can you explain why you answered the death of your clan with a goat? Does that serve a purpose for your people?”

The Avvar laughed, approaching the dais. “A courtroom? Unnecessary! You killed my idiot son, and I answered, as is my custom, by smacking your holdings with goat’s blood.”

Bridget glanced at Josephine, who shook her head and shrugged. No help there.

“No foul!” Movran went on. “He meant to murder Tevinters, but got feisty with your Inquisition. A redheaded mother guarantees a brat.”

There was a guffaw from the back, unmistakably the Iron Bull, who had a loudly avowed “thing” for redheads. Bridget frowned in his general direction, but she was thinking rapidly. The boy had meant to kill Tevinters; Josephine thought the Avvar could be useful elsewhere; the Venatori were one of the biggest threats the Inquisition faced.

Movran nodded at her, almost cordially. “Do as you’ve earned, Inquisitor. My clan yields. My remaining boys have brains still in their heads!” He laughed, clearly enjoying himself, and a general chuckle rumbled through the crowd.

Bridget sat forward, looking at him thoughtfully. Yes, this seemed like the right idea. “It seems our conflict was accidental, Chief Movran, but it cannot be repeated. I banish you and your clan—with as many weapons as you can carry—to Tevinter. You can be a thorn in their side.”

Laughing delightedly, Movran said, “From ice and cold to sun and warmth. My idiot boy got us something after all!”

He went willingly away with the soldiers, and the crowd began to disperse when Josephine made it clear that was all for today. Bridget slumped back in her seat, weak with relief now that it was all over.

“Well done, Inquisitor.” Josephine gave her an approving smile. “That was a very good solution.”

“It seemed best.” Bridget got up slowly, hoping not to have to occupy that chair, and so much of everyone’s attention, again for a good long time.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Blackwall ran his fingers over the wood, testing for splinters. He could feel none, but he picked up the file he’d been using and began scraping along the edges, smoothing them out.

After a few moments, he began to feel that tingle on the back of his neck that said he was being watched, and he turned his head to see Bridget standing in the open door of the workshop. “I’m sorry, I didn’t notice you. Been there long?”

“Only a few minutes. I was watching you work. Do you mind?”

“Not at all.” Quite the opposite, which should have given him pause, but he had come to enjoy the pounding of the blood in his veins when she was near, the heightened senses and the feeling of rightness. Dangers, all, but he could no longer help himself.

“What are you making?” she asked, coming closer. 

“It’s just a silly thing. Something to keep the hands busy.”

“They always told us in the Circle ‘idle hands are a demon’s temptation’.”

“Something like that.”

Bridget cocked her head and studied the carving. “You’ve done a lot of work on this. Is it meant as a statue?”

“No.” He touched the joint at the leg of the gryphon was carving. “I couldn’t help but notice that we’re starting to develop a population of children here, and there’s little for them to do that doesn’t require them being underfoot. I thought … perhaps a plaything or two.”

“That’s … generous of you. Thoughtful.” He could see a sudden softness in her face, something in her eyes that he couldn’t quite explain. “Do you like children?”

He hadn’t really thought about it, but he supposed he did. Children were either kind or not, as their nature and their mood dictated, but they rarely had the skill to dissemble well or to hide their emotions. “Yes, I guess I do,” he said at last.

Bridget released her breath as if she’d been holding it, waiting for his answer, and he wondered why it mattered. Unless she planned to start leaving him here as a children’s caretaker, but that would surprise him, given their relationship … or whatever you wanted to call what was between them.

He wanted to tell her something of what it meant to him to be part of something again, to be drawn back into the world. “I’m grateful you tracked me down when you did, you know. As exciting as wandering the woodlands was … this is better.”

She smiled. “I’m glad you think so.”

“It’s good to be part of something so important, something that could change things.”

The smile disappeared, the line between her eyes that came when she felt overwhelmed suddenly back. “Yes. Very important and potentially life-changing. That’s us.” She met his eyes. “I like to hope there’s more than just the work keeping you here.”

He couldn’t help it; he smiled at her, tenderly. “There is you, of course. The Inquisition is nothing without its Herald.” Blackwall hesitated, then went on. “’You are who you choose to follow.’ Someone told me that, once. Took me years to understand what he meant.”

Bridget nodded thoughtfully. “There’s wisdom in that. Who was it?”

Blackwall clenched his jaw. How much could he afford to tell her? Could he afford to tell her anything? But he found he wanted to—almost needed to. For the first time, he wanted to share with someone else who he was, and who he had been, to think about who he wanted to be. “He was … a chevalier. A powerful man, but always with honor. A true knight.” Thom Rainier hadn’t been fit to polish that man’s boots, he thought bitterly, turning away from Bridget and crossing his arms. “We met as competitors in the Grand Tourney. He left me with that advice before we parted. He put aside his own ambitions to help me in the melee. I don’t think I ever thanked him,” he added softly. The chevalier had died several years later—just one more thing Thom Rainier could never put right.

“The Grand Tourney of the Free Marches!” Bridget said delightedly. “I haven’t thought of that in years. I went once, when I was seven or eight.”

He tried to avoid doing the math, but given the age difference between them, it was possible she had been there the year he had fought. He fought down the panic that rose in him at the thought. 

“It was quite a spectacle,” she continued. “I mostly remember the food, and the games. The fighting didn’t interest me that much.” She smiled. “Too bad I didn’t know where I would end up, or I might have paid more attention.”

“The contest of arms is the greatest part—or it was for me. Prove yourself in the Grand Tourney, and you can make your fortune.”

“Did you?”

Hastily, Blackwall went on as if he hadn’t heard her question. “There were a hundred men on the field, each one fighting for himself. The knight had forged an alliance with me—green as I was, I let him, and it was the smartest thing I’ve ever done. Just the two of us, and we took all comers. The goal, naturally, was to down as many opponents as possible … but he always let me deliver the final blow.”

“That was generous of him.”

“It was more than I deserved. Far more. He said I stood to gain everything—while he’d lose nothing. To this day, I don’t know why he singled me out. There were other men there more skilled than I, smarter, stronger … but none luckier. Not that day,” he added gloomily, remembering how Thom Rainier had thrown that luck away. “When it was over, he offered to mentor me, to teach me to become a chevalier like him. And I, young and stupid, turned him down flat. I’d just won the melee at the Grand Tourney,” he said, mocking himself. “I didn’t need him.” He turned again, looking at Bridget. “My life would have been very different if I’d followed him. I regret that.”

“Is that why you follow me?” she asked softly. “Because you think you’d regret it if you didn’t?”

Her face was turned up to him, her eyes open and trusting and beautiful, and he reached out a hand, tracing the delicate edge of her jaw with his fingers. “Following you makes me think I made the right decision all those years ago after all. It puts to rest one of the demons that haunts me.”

“Because if your life had been different, we wouldn’t have met?”

He smiled. “Nothing escapes your notice. Our paths likely wouldn’t have crossed if I’d gone with the old chevalier. I could—I could never regret this life. Not with you in it.” The last words came out in a whisper. Her face was so close. Lean down a few inches and he could kiss her, and Maker, but he wanted to. To hold her in his arms and taste her lips and feel her body against his own …

Blackwall stepped back. Once he kissed her, there would be no turning back. The loss of his heart, the pledging of his life to hers, would be irrevocable. He could feel that. What he felt for her outshone anything he had ever felt for a woman before. Possibly because for the first time, he thought more of her—her happiness and her safety and her future—than he did of himself. And for her, he had to fight this compulsion as long as he could, give her the chance to find a better man, little as he wanted her to.

He turned back to the half-finished gryphon. “I should get back to this.” 

There was a silence, and then Bridget said, “Can you do a dracolisk next?”

Blackwall smiled. “I can try, if you wish it.”


	20. Crestwood

It had started raining miles from Crestwood, great sheets of rain coming down so heavily you could barely see your hand in front of your face. Scout Harding had come back to meet the Inquisitor’s party and guide them to the camp. Blackwall had been to Crestwood before, but Bridget and Varric and Dorian would have been entirely lost on a sunny day. Even he was hard put to judge landmarks in this weather, so he joined in the general relief at Harding’s presence. 

She was in front with Bridget, explaining to her what lay ahead of them in the village of Crestwood itself. New Crestwood, it was properly called, Blackwall remembered—they’d been overrun by a flood during the Blight and had been forced to rebuild on higher ground.

Bridget smiled gamely, ignoring the mud and the rain. “If you’re worried, Harding, perhaps we should have brought the whole Inquisition.”

“You flatter me, Inquisitor. I’m hardly that brave. Or maybe I should say I am that brave and you should increase my hazard pay.” Harding chuckled.

“You’ll have to take that one up with Josephine, I’m afraid. They don’t let me hold the purse strings—and probably for the best. I’d be likely to give away the whole treasury. What have we got ahead of us?” she asked.

“In the middle of the lake, there’s a massive rift that no one can get to. There are others, but that seems to be the biggest one—and when it appeared, corpses started walking out of the lake.”

Bridget stared at her. “I’m sorry—did you say corpses?”

Harding nodded. “I’m afraid so. And you’ll have to fight your way through them if you want to get to the cave where Hawke’s Grey Warden friend is hiding.”

“It can’t ever just be a normal day, can it?” Bridget asked plaintively. Blackwall squashed an urge to reach out and put his hand on her shoulder reassuringly—or he tried to squelch it, but his hand reached out for her anyway. Bridget turned her head and smiled at him through the rain, and Blackwall felt warmth bloom inside him at her innocent trust … followed immediately by the familiar corrosive black gloom that came with remembering that he didn’t deserve that trust. He dropped his hand, turning back to Harding, who was talking about the townspeople barricading themselves in their houses against the corpses.

“Maybe someone in Crestwood can tell you how to get to the rift in the lake,” she said. “Maker knows they’ll need the help.”

“We’ll do what we can,” Bridget said.

“You always do, Inquisitor.”

At length, Harding led them to the outskirts of the village, stopping at the crossroads about a mile away. “The camp is this way, Inquisitor—I’m going to go check on our people there.”

“Stay warm!” Bridget called after her. She turned to Blackwall, muttering, “What a foolish thing to say. Who can be warm in this downpour? Tell me again why they made me Inquisitor?”

“You were the only one willing to take on the task?”

“Oh, right, that’s it.” She led the way in the opposite direction from the way Harding had gone, toward the village. Blackwall thought he could see some faint lights, maybe from windows, up ahead, but it was hard to say in the rain and the darkness.

The sounds of battle, screams and strange gurgling noises and the twang of arrows and clash of steel, rose above the rain as they approached the town, finding a number of townspeople in combat with putrid decaying things. It was the corpses who were making the gurgling sound, as though they were trying to speak through lungs filled with water. Blackwall found it highly disturbing.

Bridget’s lighting split the sky, coming down on the head of one of the shambling corpses. He had to admire her grit—most women would have run from these things, especially as sheltered as she had been, but she was there leading her team. She had definitely come a long way from the woman he had first met.

Several of the people around him seemed to be armed with pitchforks and shovels and kitchen knives, but there were a few trained warriors in the fray. At one point, Blackwall saw the gleam of metal off a helmet and a chill went through him as he recognized the griffon insignia. Grey Wardens! He held himself in the battle through strength of will, and as soon as the corpses were down and Bridget approached the Wardens, he busied himself with the wounded townspeople. Blackwall—the real one—had told him long ago that Wardens could sense each other. These would know he wasn’t a member of their Order, and he didn’t want Bridget to find out … at least, not now, and not this way.

He listened, though, as best he could over the rain and the cries of the wounded. The Wardens were only passing through, not staying, and they regretted not being able to help the villagers more. They were here looking for Hawke’s friend Stroud, to bring him back to the Warden Commander. There was no hostility in their tones, more a sense of weariness and a wish they didn’t have to treat their former comrade as a fugitive. Blackwall wondered why the man was fleeing his fellow Wardens. Of course, he also wondered why the Wardens had disappeared in the first place, but was unlikely to get that answer anytime soon. 

Despite Bridget’s entreaties for them to stay, the Wardens pulled out, heading farther down the road away from the village. Bridget found Blackwall, looking apologetic. “I’m sorry, I should have gotten them to speak with you.”

He was relieved that she hadn’t seen through his attempt to hide. “More important things now than catching up with fellow Wardens. Maybe we’ll all share an ale when this is all over.”

“So I thought.” She looked after them, swiping the back of a hand across her worried face to clear the rain from it. “They didn’t mention a new leader, so hopefully they’re not part of Corypheus’s plot.”

“I hope you’re right. This Warden Clarel—why do you think she wants Stroud so badly?”

“Hard to say until we’ve met him.” Bridget glanced around, making sure Varric was out of earshot, leaning against a stone wall and attempting to keep Bianca dry with his coat. “I’d like to take Hawke’s word that Stroud is trustworthy, but it’s hard to be certain until we hear what he has to tell us.”

“You’re wise to be cautious.” Blackwall dug an only slightly damp handkerchief out of the inside of his jacket and handed it to her. “Here.”

She took it, smiling, and wiped her face with it. “Doesn’t help for long.”

“Then let’s get on into the village and find someplace dry.” He worried about her taking cold, as slender and seemingly frail as she was.

The villagers were not interested in letting strangers into their homes. At least they were willing to point the way to the Mayor’s house, and there Bridget managed to talk her way in. 

The Mayor seemed nervous. Blackwall supposed if the walking dead were attacking his home, he’d be nervous, too. “The Inquisition, you say?” the Mayor asked.

“Yes. You knew we were coming to help, didn’t you?”

“What? Oh, yes. Yes, of course. I’m sorry, where are my manners? Mayor Dedrick of Crestwood Village at your service … despite everything.”

“Bridget Trevelyan. Sorry we have to be meeting under these circumstances.”

“As am I.”

“Do you have any thoughts on where these undead are coming from? It might be easier to start there.”

“I … the lake. They’re coming from the lake, but …”

“We have to stop this,” Varric said from his position near the door. “These poor people are terrified, and who can blame them?”

“Yes!” Mayor Dedrick said. “Who indeed?”

“There’s a rift in the Fade somewhere in the middle of the lake, and that, I imagine, is what is causing the dead to rise. Can you tell me any way I might be able to get to it?” Bridget asked.

If anything, this question seemed to make the Mayor more nervous. “Uh. Well. Um, there are the caves beneath Old Crestwood. Darkspawn flooded the town years ago during the Blight. It wiped out the village, killing the refugees we took in.”

“No wonder their spirits are restless,” Varric muttered.

“There is a dam,” Blackwall pointed out. “Could we use that to drain the lake and then from there get to the caves and try to reach the rift?”

“Drain the lake!” The Mayor’s face paled. “I mean … it’s impossible. There must be some other way.”

Dorian said, “Look, your people are frightened, and they are tired. Do let us help.”

“Well, um … you’d have to evict the bandits in the old fort to get to the dam. I … I can’t ask you to risk your life.”

“You’d rather your own people continue to have to fight the undead?” Varric asked. “We love to risk our lives! It’s what we do.”

Bridget smiled at the dwarf’s vehemence, and then laid a reassuring hand on the Mayor’s arm. “Trust me. I’ve fought worse than bandits and the undead. I’m here to help, but I need you to be strong.”

Mayor Dedrick looked as though he was going to protest further, then he sighed, seeming to lose two inches of stature. “Yes. You’re right. Strong.” He went to a table and took out a key on a long cord, handing it to Bridget. “This key unlocks the gate to the dam controls past the fort. Once you’ve drained the lakes, you can get to the rift through the caves, as the gentleman said.”

It had been a long time since anyone had called Blackwall a gentleman. He found it amusing, especially given how bedraggled he must look. His beard was still dripping.

“But you can’t go there tonight,” Mayor Dedrick said. “I don’t have much space, but what I have is yours to use. A warm fire, some food, a dry place to sleep?”

Bridget accepted with alacrity. As they were preparing their bedrolls, which were damp despite all the efforts to keep them dry, and smelled a bit musty as they were unrolled, she asked the mayor to tell her about Crestwood.

“Ah, well, we’re a small village. We farm what we can, trade with the merchants who travel the King’s Road. We love peace, Your Worship. It’s all we’ve ever wanted.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Dorian muttered, and did so, taking a long sip from the flask he carried. 

“And the bandits in the fort?” Blackwall asked. He held up a blanket so that Bridget could duck behind it and change into dry clothes, carefully keeping his face turned away as he did. Much as he would love to see her naked, wet and cold and shivering wasn’t the way he hoped she would be if he ever did.

The Mayor turned delicately away also. “Thugs and thieves,” he answered. “They make a living raiding caravans. When the dead began rising from the lake, the bandits killed the old gamekeeper in the fort and took it for themselves. Pressed on both sides, there was nothing we could do to stop them.” He sighed, looking downcast. “If we’d been able to hide there, we could have saved more people, but the bandits wouldn’t help us.”

“I’m surprised a burg this small made it through the Blight,” Varric remarked, sitting down on his bedroll and beginning to polish Bianca.

“We almost didn’t.” The Mayor’s voice quavered and he was starting to look twitchy again. Blackwall couldn’t blame him; he had seen enough of the Blight to know how devastating it was to small villages like this one. “The darkspawn followed a band of refugees and they somehow managed to break the dam controls and flood the town. The darkspawn perished … but so did the refugees. And now they return to us.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll go find you something to eat and then … I think I’ll turn in. These days are—very long.”

“Squirrelly,” Varric said when the Mayor was gone. “Very squirrelly.”

“Wouldn’t you be?” Dorian asked.

“Maybe. Still … I’m glad we’re only staying here one night.”

They passed the night in fitful sleep, nothing entirely dry, the floor cold and hard and the Mayor tossing and turning audibly in his room. Before the dawn could break through the sheets of rain, they were up and on the move again, the storm as bad as ever when they left the Mayor’s house.

A woman with a goat and some straggly vegetables at the one forlorn market stall offered them some warm milk and soggy bread for breakfast, which they ate gratefully. It hadn’t been that long since Blackwall had made do with food exactly like this more often than not, but none of the others were used to these conditions at all.

They were all grimly determined by the time they made it to the fort, mud sticking to their boots with every step, and Bridget and Dorian and Varric stood back and hit the bandits with everything they had.

By the time they smashed through the front gate, the remaining bandits were fairly demoralized. It took very little courage to terrorize a small village of dejected and weary people, but a great deal more to stand against two angry mages and a dwarf with a crossbow fully half his size—not to mention a seasoned warrior of Blackwall’s own skill, which was tremendous when compared with that of the bandits.

They left the surviving bandits tied up inside the fort and descended through the basement to a locked gate that led outside, finding a derelict inn at the end of a long pier.

“Is that where the dam controls are?” Bridget speculated.

“Seems the most likely place. Let’s go see.”

They had expected to find the inn unoccupied, but as they came in, two young people in a stage of undress that had Blackwall thinking things he shouldn’t about how nice it would be to have Bridget here alone sprang apart from one another, the girl hastily yanking a shirt on.

Dorian grinned at them. “Don’t mind us. Just passing by.”

The girl nudged the boy. “Look at her hand.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “The Inquisitor! We—we didn’t know you were here, ser. Please, don’t tell anyone you saw us together.”

“Ah, the age-old story. So romantic.” Varric sighed happily. 

Bridget frowned at the pair. “How did you get in here? I thought the only way was through the fort.”

The two young people both stared at her blankly. At last the girl said, “No, it’s not hard … just a little slippery, in all this wet, and no one likes to come out here because of what happened in the Blight, the flood and all.” 

“Clever man, that Mayor,” Dorian said. “Got his bandit problem fixed for free.”

“Yes. By playing on my gullibility.” Bridget’s tone made it clear what she thought of that.

The boy said again, anxiously, “You won’t tell anyone you saw us together, will you?”

Bridget shook her head, her good humor restored by the boy’s plight. “Who could resist the thrill of a decrepit pub in which to defy the orders of your elders? Never fear, your secret is safe with me.” She looked sad for a moment. “I’ve defied a few orders in my time; I know what it’s like.”

The girl said, “There isn’t anywhere else, ser. Everyone else is all crammed into the village. Too many people!”

“Lonnie’s parents would have a fit if they saw us,” the boy added. He was a young man of a single idea, clearly.

Lonnie crossed her arms, frowning. “They want me to marry the baker’s boy in the next village. I’ve never even met him!”

The boy looked fearfully at Bridget. “We can’t leave now, ser. Lonnie’s father won’t have left for the fields yet.”

“Listen to the rain. He won’t be leaving all day,” Lonnie pointed out. 

“We could try the caves.”

“You hate spiders,” she reminded him.

“Just stay here,” Bridget told them impatiently. “And tell me where the dam controls are.”

The young people pointed to a door at the back of the room. It was blocked up pretty thoroughly, but Blackwall was able to clear it quickly. Dorian and Varric helped as well, although they weren’t quite as strong as he was. And none of them were willing to let Bridget help. She had many skills, but physical strength wasn’t one of them, and no one wanted her wearing out before they got to the rift.

At last they got the door open and went in, finding the wheel that controlled the dam. It was dusty and spider-webbed and clearly no one had been here in a good long time, but it appeared fully operational.

Bridget walked around it, frowning. “Is there something I’m missing here? I could have sworn the Mayor said these controls were destroyed by the darkspawn ten years ago. Did someone repair them?”

Blackwall was inspecting the equipment, finding nothing out of the ordinary. They appeared abandoned, but otherwise structurally sound. “It doesn’t look like they were ever damaged,” he said. “And there’s certainly no evidence that darkspawn were ever here.” He added that because he thought a Warden would, not because he could actually tell if a darkspawn had been in a room ten years ago. He rather doubted a Warden could, either.

“So, he lies to us about how to get here, puts us in the path of what he thinks are scary and competent bandits, and then lies to us again about the condition of the controls? In a story, I’d be suspecting the ever-helpful Mayor is trying to hide something,” Varric remarked.

Blackwall shoved at one of the arms of the mechanism. It didn’t budge. So he pushed harder, and felt it give a little. “Dorian, get in here,” he barked, knowing that the mage was surprisingly muscular. Dorian came and stood next to him and, gritting their teeth, they pushed together. Slowly the mechanism began to turn until it had gone as far around as it would go.

They left the room, passing Lonnie and her boyfriend sitting side-by-side in the main room looking glum, and went outside, to see that the dam had opened and the lake was drained. The smell coming up was terrible, and the rain still fell thick and fast. They made their way through the ruins of Old Crestwood, skeletons strewn everywhere. Lake creatures scuttled quickly off in the direction the water had gone, fish flopping on the ground gasping their last.

The entrance to the caves was hidden behind a set of rotted wooden doors, but the infrastructure inside seemed fairly stable as they slowly picked their way amongst the debris that littered the paths. At the back of a passage they found a whole pile of bones, as though a sizeable number of people had fled into the cave and been backed up against the wall before the water caught up to them. Bridget stood looking down at them, wondering how terror-filled their last moments must have been.

“No wonder the dead couldn’t rest properly,” Dorian said softly next to her. “Do you think anyone even tried to see them to the Maker … somehow?”

“That Mayor? I wouldn’t bet on it,” Varric said.

“Cold water rising, no way out … Maker’s breath.” Blackwall shook his head. “What a rotten way to die.”

“Are there any good ways?” Dorian asked him sharply.

“Dying in bed would have to be better than this.”

“Perhaps.”

Bridget stepped abruptly back from the pile of bones. “Well, we’re not helping them any by standing here, and as long as that rift stays open, we’re putting other people in danger. Let’s go.” 

The rest of them followed her down through the caves and into some ruins that had to be dwarven. Dorian kept pointing out bits and pieces of dwarven architecture to Varric, who kept reminding him that he was a surface dwarf and didn’t care. 

“But … your heritage!”

“Yeah, Sparkler? What about your heritage? You want me to point out that Corypheus’s robes were the height of fashion in the Tevinter of his day?”

“They were! … But I see your point.”

“Thank you.”

“Care to play another game of cards when we get back to Skyhold?”

Varric laughed. “Not with your crazy Tevinter rules.”

“Have you noticed that everything you don’t like about me you label ‘crazy’ and ‘Tevinter’?”

“Picked up the habit from Tiny.”

“No, you didn’t, or you would call them ‘crazy fucking Vint rules’.”

“Good point,” Varric conceded. 

“And no one ever died from my crazy Tevinter rules anyway … at least, not lately.” Dorian flashed his dazzling smile.

“You two want to hold it down?” Bridget snapped at them. “At this rate, the demons are going to be more than ready for us when we finally reach the rift.”

“Sorry, Sunflower,” Varric said contritely.

“What he said,” Dorian echoed.

Blackwall glanced at both of them, a smile twitching under his mustache. They sounded like a pair of pesky lads annoying their mother. Not that Bridget seemed old enough to be anyone’s mother, he thought, watching her walk ahead, her slender back straight and rigid. He could see the tension in her, the carefully controlled fear he knew filled her anytime she went into battle—particularly where a rift was concerned, since she was the only one who could close them.

At last they reached the rift. It was a difficult one; Blackwall could see the strain in Bridget as she tried to close it, and he redoubled his efforts to keep the demons off her while she worked. 

When the rift sealed itself off, while Dorian and Varric took on the last of the Despair demons, Bridget collapsed to the ground on her hands and knees, breathing heavily. Blackwall hurried to her side, kneeling next to her and putting a gentle hand on her back.

“Are you all right?”

“I will be. Give me a moment.”

He stayed with her there while she got her energy back. 

“Is it always that bad?” he asked as she got to her feet.

“No, not usually. This was a big rift, and we’ve had so little sleep or food in the last few days that my reserves are low.” She looked at him and smiled. “I’ll be fine. I can handle it, really.”

“All right.” But it wasn’t all right. He felt—and was—helpless in the face of the Anchor’s effects on her, and his pride in how well she stood up to the demands of her job didn’t overcome his feeling of frustration that this was one battle he couldn’t take the brunt of for her.

Bridget’s smiled widened and softened as if she could read his thoughts, and she put a hand on his shoulder, leaving it there for a moment. “I can handle it,” she said again.

“I know.”

She gave his shoulder a squeeze and moved off through the cave. Dorian claimed to have found a breeze, which should mean an entrance nearby, and he and Varric had gone ahead, while Dorian twitted Varric about his lack of dwarven stone sense.

They came out on the far side of Old Crestwood to find the rain had stopped and the sun was shining. While that was pleasant enough, steam was rising now from the decaying bits of the old village, and the smell was anything but pleasant.

“Uh-oh,” Varric said ahead of them. “Dragon alert.”

“What?” Bridget said, alarmed. “Where?”

There was no way she was in any kind of shape to be fighting a dragon. Blackwall put himself protectively in front of her.

“Not that kind, Sunflower,” Varric assured her. He pointed. “The fiery little kind.”

Blackwall followed the pointing finger and saw Scout Harding waiting there for them, next to a fire over which a kettle was suspended on a tripod.

Harding smiled when she saw them and came toward them with a cup in her hands. “Inquisitor! I thought you might like a hot cup of tea when you emerged.”

“You were absolutely right. Do we pay you enough? We couldn’t possibly.” Bridget accepted the cup gratefully, breathing in the fragrant steam. “This is just what I needed.”

“I have more for the rest of you,” Harding said. She cut her eyes at Varric. “If you even drink tea.”

“I read a dilly of a fortune in the leaves,” he told her.

“I’ll bet.”

As they returned to her little fire, Harding explained that the storm had ended as soon as the rift was closed, and that the rumors that Bridget had cleared the fort had reached her in time to send her team into it to get it ready for the Inquisition’s occupation. “I claimed it as a base in the name of the Inquisition. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind, but did you report back to Josephine? I’m sure there are political implications that I’m too tired to consider thoroughly at the moment.”

Harding nodded. “I’m waiting for a return raven. Also …” She handed Bridget an envelope. “The Mayor is gone. He left this for you.”

“For me?” Bridget opened it, scanning the page quickly. “Oh. Oh, dear.”

“What is it?” Dorian asked.

“A confession. He was the one who flooded the town all those years ago, and drowned those poor people. They were refugees, sick with the taint, so they were holding them in the caves in order to keep it from spreading. When the darkspawn attacked, he saw a chance to … er … resolve both his problems, and blamed the closing of the dam on the darkspawn.”

“And he’s been living with that ever since? Poor man,” Blackwall said. He knew what it was to have done something unforgivable and to have to bear that burden alone.

“Poor man?” Harding asked. “Sorry bastard, if you ask me. And a coward, too, running before he could get caught.”

Blackwall looked at Bridget, to see if she agreed with the scout. He admired Harding for her bright courage and forcefulness, but she saw the world in shades of very definite colors, rather than as the muddy canvas it truly was.

“It’s a sad mess, however you look at it,” Bridget said.

“Do you intend to try to catch him?” Dorian asked her.

“No. Now that we’ve dealt with the undead, we’re going to get some sleep, and then we’re going to find Hawke and Stroud, and then we’re going home. Leliana’s people can hunt the Mayor, if they want.”

No one argued with that, and they finished their tea and let Harding escort them up to the fort. She and Varric traded insults all the way—friendly on Varric’s side, somewhat less so on Harding’s, or so it seemed to Blackwall.

The fort was in the process of being cleaned. A room had been set up for the Inquisitor, and between them they prevailed on Bridget to stop worrying about the rest of them and get some much-needed sleep. Eventually, space was found for Blackwall and the others, too, and all of them turned in, glad to be warm and dry for the first time in days.

The next morning they woke refreshed and headed out across country toward the cave where Hawke intended to meet them. It was a beautiful day, warm and sunny, and the fields and meadows of Crestwood were at their best, if still a bit damp from all the rain.

Blackwall walked with Varric, noting the way the sun glinted off Bianca, buffed to a high shine, as always. “You’re quite the artist with that bow,” he remarked.

“Crossbow.”

“Crossbow,” Blackwall amended. “Sorry.”

“She gets a little touchy about the proper nomenclature. And since she does most of the work, I like to keep her happy.”

Blackwall raised an eyebrow. He found Varric’s insistence on treating the crossbow as though it had human emotions disturbing, largely because he thought there was a very real possibility that the dwarf was serious. “You have to aim her. Precisely,” he pointed out. “I’m not sure I’d be capable of that.”

“Too attached to hitting things with your fists?”

“Well, I prefer a long sharp piece of metal. Less wear and tear on the body that way.”

“Good point.”

“But I do love being in the thick of things.”

Varric nodded. “And I prefer to stand back and watch, whenever possible. Which is why Bianca and I make such a good team.” He grinned up at Blackwall. “Just like you and Sunflower.”

Blackwall raised his eyebrows.

“What? Like no one’s noticed? Please.” As Blackwall continued to glower at him, Varric held up a hand. “Never mind, forget I said anything. You know, you’re starting to remind me of Fenris—and that’s not necessarily a good thing.”

Given that he wasn’t sure what remark to make to that, Blackwall didn’t make one. There was a rock formation ahead, anyway, that he thought must be the cave they were looking for.

As they approached the entrance to the cave, Hawke poked his head gingerly out. “Good, you made it,” he said when they were within earshot. “Nasty storm, that.”

“Miserable,” Fenris echoed from inside the cave.

“Yes, wasn’t it?” Bridget agreed. “Is … is he here?”

Hawke nodded. “At the back of the cave.”

“I hope he’s well-hidden. There were other Wardens here two nights ago looking for him. Does he know that?”

“He does. Apparently they’ve all been told he’s a traitor and ordered to capture or kill him.”

Varric gave a whistle. “He must have pissed someone off pretty thoroughly.”

“Too much blood is shed by good men following bad orders,” Fenris remarked.

Dorian nodded. “Entirely too true.”

“We probably shouldn’t keep him waiting,” Blackwall said, regretting the words the moment they were out of his mouth. The last thing he wanted to do around a Grey Warden was draw any attention to himself.

But Hawke was nodding and leading the way toward the back of the cave. It was easy for Blackwall to step aside and let everyone go on ahead, joining Hawke’s elven lover at the back of the group. They walked together without speaking. Blackwall had no idea what he would say to an escaped Tevinter slave whose skin was inlaid with lyrium, so he supposed not talking was the best choice.

The cave was fairly well appointed; Stroud must have been here a while. Maps were strewn on tables, and there was a makeshift bed in a corner, with candles affixed in the walls.

Stroud himself was a mustached man probably ten years older than Blackwall, dark hair just beginning to go grey. He spoke in a pronounced Orlesian accent as he introduced himself to Bridget.

“I’m sorry we have to meet under these circumstances," she said. "I’m aware of some of the Wardens’ troubles, although I don’t pretend to understand them all. Is it possible Corypheus might be behind this?”

Stroud nodded. “I fear it is so. When Weisshaupt heard that Corypheus was dead, they were more than happy to put the matter to rest. No investigation was made into what had occurred at Adamant; merely sighs of relief that our thousand-year-old nightmare was over. Little did we know a worse one was just beginning.”

“Tell me how that tainted monster isn’t dead,” Varric demanded.

“An Archdemon can survive wounds that seem fatal—I think it is entirely possible that Corypheus possesses the same power.”

“Well, shit.”

“My sentiments exactly,” Stroud agreed. “Given that every Warden in Orlais began to hear the Calling at the same time, around the time of the Conclave, I fear it is all too likely that Corypheus has powers none of us imagined.”

“The Calling? Is that a Grey Warden ritual?”

Blackwall felt rather than saw Bridget glance his way as she asked the question, but he stayed where he was, in the shadows near the entrance to the large room in the back of the cave; he hoped it would appear that he was watching for anyone coming up behind them.

“The Calling tells a Warden that the Blight will soon claim him. It starts with dreams—then come the whispers in his head. The Warden says his farewells and goes to the Deep Roads to meet his death in combat.”

Bridget’s glance back at him was filled with alarm this time, and Blackwall felt a new wave of guilt wash over him that not only was he lying to her, he was making her fear for his life in the process. How to convince her that he was in no danger of the Calling without making her question him as a Warden?

“Every Grey Warden in Orlais is hearing that right now? They think they’re dying?” Hawke asked.

Stroud nodded. “Our greatest fear is who will be left to stand against the Blight if we all fall. This Calling brought that fear to life.”

“So they did something desperate, which is naturally what Corypheus wants. How obliging we all are to act as his puppets,” Dorian said, rolling his eyes.

“That assumes Corypheus is mimicking the Calling, which is what I believe, although I do not know how,” Stroud answered. “But the rest of the Wardens believe it is all too real, which is what has led to my exile here in this cave, hiding from those who were once my brothers and sisters.”

“You hear it, too?” Bridget asked.

“Yes. It lurks like a wolf in the shadows around a campfire.” Stroud’s voice was far away, his eyes fixed somewhere over their heads as though he was listening. He shook his head violently, as if to clear it.

“Blackwall?” She was looking at him again, and he hastened to reassure her.

“I do not fear the Calling,” he said, “and worrying about it only gives it power. Anything Corypheus does will only strengthen my resolve.”

Stroud nodded, as if he accepted that answer, and Blackwall tried to hold in the relief he felt. Fenris’s eyes were on him, but only wary, not suspicious—and Blackwall was fairly certain Fenris was wary of everyone.

Bridget shook her head. “If the Wardens truly fear they are dying, they cannot be thinking clearly in other matters. That can’t be good.”

“It is not,” Stroud agreed. “Warden-Commander Clarel spoke of a blood magic ritual to prevent future Blights before we all perished and none were left to stand against the next Archdemon. When I protested the plan as madness, my own comrades, my family, turned on me.”

“Has it already taken place?”

“Not that I know of. They are gathering in Orlais, in the Western Approach, at an ancient Tevinter ritual tower. I have only been waiting here to meet you, and now I will travel there in hopes of catching them before they begin. There was a great deal of preparation that needed to be made for the ritual; I hope that has slowed them down.”

“I fear what we’ll find there.” Hawke shook his head. “I’ve seen too much blood magic to ever trust where it leads.” Over the heads of the others, his eyes sought Fenris’s, a weight of memory in that glance. Hawke looked away, nodding decisively. “Fenris and I will accompany you to the Western Approach.”

“It is safer if I go alone,” Stroud argued.

“Not if the other Wardens can track you. Then you need someone with you who can help you in case of attack.”

Stroud hesitated, then sighed. “Very well.”

“We will return to Skyhold, then join you in the Approach,” Bridget said. “Scout Harding and her people will also be traveling to the Approach, and you can always communicate with me through her. Harding has my trust,” she added, when Stroud looked as if he were about to argue.

“As you say, Inquisitor.”

The Inquisition team left the cave. Outside, Bridget turned her face up to the sun. “It isn’t that late in the day,” she said. “What do you say we go back to the fort, pack up some provisions, and head out? We can get a good start back toward Skyhold today.”

There was general agreement to that—none of them were anxious to spend any more time in Crestwood—and they followed Bridget back to the fort.


	21. Where It Happened

Their first night, Bridget and the others camped amidst some trees on a high hill. They were out of Crestwood and heading toward the mountains. It was chillier up here, but after all that rain, it was nice just to be dry and sitting by a crackling fire eating rabbit and onion stew.

So far, the food had occupied most of their attention—nothing like a long walk to sharpen the appetite. But now, as Varric set his plate down and leaned toward the fire, holding his hands out to warm them, he sighed. “Damn Corypheus.”

“It’s not your fault, Varric,” Bridget reminded him.

“Yeah, you say that.”

“You and Hawke were both certain that you killed him.”

“We did! But … apparently not permanently? Shit, I don’t know anymore. At the time, he seemed as dead as dead could be. I mean, there was a magical barrier keeping us from going back the way we came—set up by the Wardens long ago, I assume—so the only way out was through Corypheus, and he wasn’t exactly in a good mood when we found him. And we weren’t about to just leave the door to his prison open behind us and just hope he was dead. We made sure.” He glanced at Dorian, who was still eating. “I’ll spare you the gory details, but that body was not going to be usable again.”

“But I saw him at Haven.”

“I know you did, Sunflower. I wish I could explain it.”

“If an Archdemon can rise again, so can an ancient Tevinter magister darkspawn, apparently,” Blackwall said. Bridget studied him, her head cocked to the side. He had been very quiet this whole trip. She imagined it must be odd for him to be suddenly presented with another Warden after all this time, but she would have thought he would have been happier about it. 

“Had you ever heard much about Corypheus?” she asked him. 

He shook his head. “No. I always thought the old stories of magisters corrupting the Golden City were just that. But they don’t tell the rank and file much. Stroud’s a senior warden, and even he didn’t know a lot, from what he said.”

“Wardens are big on secrecy,” Varric agreed.

Dorian leaned toward the dwarf eagerly. “What was that like, walking into that room and finding out that not only were the stories true, but one of those very magisters was still alive?”

“Scary,” Varric replied succinctly.

“Do you think there are any more like him?” Bridget asked.

“Anything’s possible. Maybe if you asked someone at Weisshaupt, but they’re the kings of secrets.” Blackwall hunched over his plate as if he didn’t want to talk about this any longer. Bridget didn’t blame him; but at the same time, Corypheus menaced all of Thedas. They had to think about him enough to be able to counter him.

“He’s a figure from Tevinter history,” Bridget pointed out. “Have you ever heard of him, Dorian?”

“It’s all a bit of a blur—the Imperium was at its peak then, so many people had power. The Magisterium was united, its armies scooping up bits of Thedas like candy.”

“You say that so cheerfully, Sparkler.”

Dorian shrugged. “It’s the truth … and ancient history, at that. The modern Imperium is nothing like that.”

“But they’d like to be. Isn’t that what Corypheus is all about?” Bridget asked. 

“Well, they revere the tale of the magisters who entered the Black City; they represent how exceptional Tevinter had become, how exceptional it could be again. Corypheus seems steeped in that emotion. Of course, entering the City was hardly a benefit for anyone, which those of us with clear eyes can see … but so few in Tevinter have clear eyes.”

“But who were those magisters?”

Dorian shrugged. “No one knows. I’ve been unable to find a record of any magister named ‘Corypheus’, and my sources in the Imperium have drawn a blank as well. Of course, this was all fourteen hundred years ago, before the Blight nearly wiped us out. What records there were of that time have largely disappeared.”

“So the whole tale disappeared into myth,” Varric said. 

“Just as all this no doubt will someday,” Dorian agreed, “our characters reduced to the scratches of a quill.”

Varric grinned. “As long as it’s mine.”

“So now we know the story is real,” Bridget continued, not wanting to get off-topic, “but we don’t know who it is exactly that we’re dealing with.”

“Based on how confused he was when we first found him, it’s good odds that even he doesn’t remember. What I really don’t understand how he’s still alive. I mean, a thousand years?” Varric twisted his hands together. Bridget rarely saw him without either Bianca or a quill in his hand—that he was sitting here with neither made clear just how upsetting he found all this. 

“He’s a darkspawn now. They don’t live normal human lifespans,” Blackwall said shortly. “They’re unnatural and sustained by …” He frowned, looking for the right word. “Evil.”

“Do you think he has actually corrupted the Wardens? This Warden Clarel stooping to blood magic …” Varric shook his head. “Hard to imagine.”

“Yes,” Blackwall snapped. “It is.”

“And yet, there seems little doubt that she’s doing it. A last resort, perhaps? Fear can do terrible things,” Dorian said.

Blackwall sighed. “That it can. And the Wardens have always believed in doing whatever was necessary against the Blights, even if that meant going against certain laws and prohibitions.”

“Corypheus could be influencing her mind, though, too. I think we can’t judge her too harshly until we see what’s going on. Hopefully we’ll be in time to stop the ritual and calm her down a bit,” Bridget said. She looked over at Blackwall, wanting to ask about his state of mind, but he seemed so prickly she was hesitant to prod at him any further.

Fortunately, Dorian felt no such scruples. “And you, my friend? Any voices in your head?”

“If I start hearing things beyond the incessant yammering of my companions, you’ll be the first to know.” 

“Pardon me for showing my concern.”

Blackwall looked at Dorian, the mage clearly affronted, and sighed. “No, pardon me. I’m … not myself at the moment.”

“Are you hearing the Calling?” Bridget asked, too concerned for his welfare to heed the signal that he wanted to stop talking about it.

He looked at her, his face unreadable. “I know what Corypheus is. He holds no sway over me.” Putting down his plate, he got to his feet. “Excuse me.” He left the campfire, seeking the quiet of the trees. 

Bridget sat frozen in her seat, wanting to go after him but not sure she had any right to ask what was bothering him. They had a certain friendship, a certain attraction, but there was so much she had never told him. And she knew nothing about being a Grey Warden, what that was like, or why Blackwall had chosen to go—or had been sent—so far from the rest of his order. What Stroud had said must be burning in him, the corruption, the fear. Was he hearing the Calling? He said not, but that could be what lay behind his quietness. 

Eventually she decided to go after him. Well, not so much decided as yielded to the inevitable, and to Dorian’s raised eyebrows and Varric’s manful refusal to ask why she wasn’t.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Blackwall was leaning against a tree staring off into the distance, wrestling with his better and worse natures, when he heard her coming. He had known she would; truth be told, he had waited here for her, unable to do anything else.

He turned and watched her come toward him, so serious as she picked her way through the trees, and his heart lifted. 

_Maker’s blood_ , Blackwall thought. He was in love with her. He didn’t know how it hadn’t occurred to him yet that he’d gotten in this deep, but he most certainly had. And he couldn’t even regret it. He couldn’t remember ever having met a woman more worthy of being loved; he only wished he could offer her more than lies and shame and a man too damaged to know who he was anymore.

She came toward him, her eyes wide with concern for him. “Are you all right?”

“I … No. Not really.” That much had clearly been obvious to her; there was little point in lying.

“Because of what Stroud said.”

“Yes.”

Bridget was studying him now, her eyes seeming to reach inside him. “But something more, too.”

He nodded, looking for the words. “There are things I … want to tell you, but— It’s late. And … I hate to ask you to backtrack when you were so looking forward to going home …” It wasn’t that far, not from here. And maybe if he found the spot, maybe if he was standing in the place where it had happened, where Thom Rainier had been sacrificed in the name of a better man, then he could speak.

“You can ask me anything, you know that.” 

She meant it, he could see, and he swallowed against his sudden desperate need to kiss her. “Then—will you come with me to the Storm Coast? There’s something I want to look for there.”

“Of course.” 

“The others won’t be happy.”

Bridget nodded. “I’m sure I’ll owe them both a favor. It’ll be worth it.”

“You put too much faith in me, my lady,” he said, his voice rasping over the lump in his throat.

“Not possible.” She gave him a faint parting smile and returned to the campfire.

What she had told Varric and Dorian, Blackwall didn’t know, but the next morning they were both fairly cheerful about the need to head north instead of south.

Walking behind her, watching her confident stride, so different from the way she had moved in the wilderness when he first met her, Blackwall was able to lose himself, however briefly, in admiration of her, without entirely realizing it drifting into a hazy fantasy in which he could allow himself to love her.

He became vaguely aware of a voice at his elbow, a voice rising in stridency—and then he was pitching forward headlong into a puddle. Blackwall got to his knees, brushing water off his face and out of his beard, tossing his head to get his hair back out of his face.

“I tried to tell you,” Varric said. The dwarf wasn’t laughing aloud, but his eyes were dancing with the unvoiced mirth.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t waste your sarcasm on me, Broody. If you hadn’t been lost in inappropriate thoughts about the Inquisitor …”

“I was not!” Blackwall couldn’t maintain the lie in the face of Varric’s knowing smirk. “All right, maybe I was.”

“Look, this is none of my business …”

“Too right, it isn’t.”

“But the beauty of me is that I make everything my business.” Varric grinned, then sobered, reaching out a hand to help Blackwall up and lowering his voice in the process. “She needs to be something other than the Inquisitor for a change, and you’re the one she wants. We all know it. Whatever’s holding you back, you’re hurting her as much as you’re saving her from whatever you don’t want to tell her.”

“Those … are a lot of words,” Blackwall said, startled at the dwarf’s insight. Of course, he shouldn’t be—watching other people and understanding them was Varric’s bread and butter. 

“You going to listen to them?”

“I—maybe.” He waved at Bridget, who had stopped up ahead and turned around to see if he was all right.

“Blackwall?”

He looked down, surprised to hear Varric use his real name, raising his eyebrows in question.

“Don’t hurt her.”

“Which is it?”

“Both.”

“What if both isn’t possible? What if it’s already too late?”

“Then … be careful.”

It was probably too late to be careful, as well, if Blackwall was being honest with himself. But he would try. He nodded at Varric and moved on, quickly enough to catch up with Bridget and Dorian but not so fast as to outpace the dwarf too badly.

The Storm Coast was rainy, as well, but at least there were Inquisition camps in readiness, and the Blades of Hessarian had relatively comfortable buildings that they readily welcomed the Inquisitor and her team into. And the fine cool drizzle was nothing like the downpour at Crestwood, which was a relief to all of them.

They set out in the morning, Blackwall leading the way. He knew it, too, almost without looking, his steps moving toward the spot as if drawn there by a magnet. 

“Do you know, Blackwall, Stroud rather reminded me of you,” Dorian said. The mage glanced up at the grey sky with unhappiness and folded his hands inside his robe. 

“Oh?”

“Well, you have a far finer mustache, of course, but you seem to share a similar reserve. Is that a common trait among Wardens?”

Blackwall glanced over at his companion, raising his eyebrows. “You find me reserved?”

Dorian laughed. “At times.”

“Hm. That’s a shame. I was aiming for aloof.”

“Keep trying. I’m certain you’ll get there.”

Blackwall chuckled. It had been a long time since he felt comfortable enough in any place, or among other people, to exercise his naturally dry sense of humor. He had missed it more than he knew. He felt a pang at the idea that once he revealed his true self to Bridget, all this was likely to be over. She couldn’t have a criminal on the run as one of her companions, and she would despise him for the liar and the fake that he was. 

And what would happen to her without him? Cassandra would step up, or the Iron Bull … but the Bull had the Chargers and Cassandra her search for the missing Seekers. Neither of them had the time to spare for Bridget that was needed to truly keep her safe. 

Before he could investigate that line of thought further, his feet stopped of their own accord, and he looked up at the bluff in front of him. Here, he thought. This is where it happened, just up there. What would he find there? Not Blackwall—he had burnt the body, sent the Warden off to the Maker himself. But the marks of the burning might still be there, and whatever he might have missed when he scavenged the campsite.

It was too late now to turn back. He began climbing the bluff, his feet finding the toeholds while his hands reached forward and his memory filled in the heart-pounding terror of the climb all those years ago: the screams of the darkspawn and the clash of steel, his stomach still churning from the experience of facing down and killing a darkspawn himself. And then to come to the camp and find Blackwall slowly being forced back by the creatures, overpowered and overwhelmed, drawing his own blade in the defense of the man who had saved him in so many ways, but not quite fast enough.

By the time the darkspawn were all dead, so was the Warden. Rainier, as he had been then, had carefully laid him out, lit the pyre, and wept over the loss. 

Only then, watching the sparks fade into the distance, had it occurred to Rainier that no one but him knew what had happened since they’d left that seedy barroom. From there, it hadn’t been too many steps to his ultimate decision, a decision he had tried to live up to over the years but still felt conflicted about.

“Blackwall?”

He jumped at the sound of Bridget’s voice; he hadn’t been aware that he had reached the top of the bluff, much less that she was behind him. “It’s so quiet now,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I remember when it wasn’t.”

“You’ve been here before.”

“Yes. I came here with another Warden. We were—we were ambushed.” How much should he tell her? He had brought her here to tell her everything, but now … Turning, he looked down into her blue eyes, so open and trusting. Could he shatter that trust, cost himself—everything? “I tried to save him, but he died.”

Bridget put a hand on his arm. “That must have been very hard.”

“Wardens are used to death, but this was different.” He closed his eyes, adding softly, “Life-changing.”

She was silent as he communed with his conscience, knowing what the right thing to do was and yet knowing equally as surely that he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“Come on.” He moved ahead toward the remnants of that old camp. Dorian and Varric had chosen not to make the climb, and while he knew that neither of them enjoyed the outdoors, he also appreciated their sensitivity.

There were still bones strewn around the campsite. The burn marks looked like a campfire, thanks to the encroachment of grass and weeds, and no longer so much like a pyre.

Blackwall swallowed, wondering what he had thought he would find here. The ghost of himself? The ghost of Blackwall? Some long-vanished courage that he wasn’t entirely sure he’d ever had in the first place? Whatever he had expected, there was nothing here, nothing but grass and dirt.

“Look at this!” She knelt and dislodged some piece of metal from a tangle of weeds, holding it up for his inspection.

He took it, turning it over in his hands. Blackwall’s badge. It should have cemented him in his intention to tell her the truth she deserved to hear, but instead it felt … like a sign. Like Warden Blackwall was reaching out of the Fade and giving his approval. 

Maker, what a hokey piece of crap that idea was, he thought, but he couldn’t help himself. He loved her. He wanted her. He needed her. And what was more, he thought she needed him, too.

“What is it?” she asked.

“The Warden-Constable’s badge.”

“You mean yours, right?”

He looked at it again. It had been Blackwall’s; all that had been Blackwall’s was now his. “Yes,” he said slowly, “I suppose it must be. After all … I did earn it. I shouldn’t have let it go so easily. I … didn’t know I’d lost it.” He moved to stand in the middle of the ruined campsite. “This was my life before I met you. Crumbling ruins. Endless battles. Death.”

Bridget came to him, looking up into his eyes. Raindrops fell into her face, but she ignored them. “I see my share of ruins and death, too—you don’t have to face them alone. And neither do I.” She gave him a little smile, her eyes lighting with humor. “Maybe that means we’re perfect for each other.”

“You tease, but … you don’t know …”

“I do know. I know what I see in your eyes, in your heart. I know what I want, Blackwall.”

He wanted that, too, everything she wanted, everything she offered, but he had no right. No right at all. “Nothing frightens you, does it?” he asked.

She nodded, still holding his gaze. “A great many things frighten me—and you protect me from most of them. What frightens me most is the idea that someday you may not be there.”

“I … want to be there.”

Whatever she might have said in response was lost as she rose on her toes and he lowered his head and their mouths met for the first time. Her mouth was soft and warm and yielding beneath his, and she fit as perfectly into his arms as he had always imagined she might. He could have stood here all day, feeling her mouth and body against his, but—all this was so far from what his intention had been when he asked her to come here. He had intended to tell her everything, and instead here he was allowing things to go even further, risking her heart when he knew it was wrong to do so.

Gently he disentangled himself from her, refusing to dwell on how starry and bright her eyes were or on how much he wanted to kiss her again. “I … need to think. Can we—we can talk back at Skyhold.”

“Take your time. But, Blackwall?”

He looked at her, seeing laughter in her eyes, a light that warmed him all through, even though he tried not to feel it. 

“Don’t take too long.”

“I’ll try not to, my lady.”


	22. Tomorrow Can Be Anything

They got in halfway through the day, tired and hungry and dirty. Bridget headed straight for a bath and a meal—it was brought to her room by one of the serving girls, a luxury she frankly rather despised herself for enjoying—and then went down to the gardens to take a walk in the beautiful weather and enjoy being home again.

In the pavilion in the center of the gardens she saw Cullen and Dorian bent over a board, both quite intent, and she walked over to see what it was they were playing. 

As she came closer, Cullen lifted his head and said to Dorian, “Gloat all you like. I have this one.”

Dorian, marvelously refreshed after their long trip, leaned back in his chair with that easy confidence that was such a part of him, and laughed. “Sassing me, now, are you, Commander? Delightful! I really didn’t know you had it in you.”

Bridget hadn’t, either. She paused, watching them play for a few moments. This was a whole new side of Cullen—serious, yes, of course, but playful, as well, and entirely confident in his abilities.

At last he noticed here there, and got immediately to his feet. “Inquisitor.”

“Leaving so soon? This must mean I win.” Dorian smiled up at Cullen, tossing a wink at Bridget.

“He was being polite,” she said to him. “Manners, you know.”

“Oh, those. Yes, I’ve heard of them. Very distracting.”

Cullen cleared his throat, his confidence and his playfulness deserting him in Bridget’s presence. She was sad about that. “Please, don’t let me interrupt the game,” she urged him. “I’d be glad to watch.”

“Well, if you insist—?”

When she did, indeed, insist, Cullen took his seat again. It was a moment before he could put himself back in the mindset of the game, but he managed soon enough, and Bridget watched in silence while they played. She was only a middling chess player herself, but she enjoyed watching skilled players.

Dorian lifted a piece with a flourish and set it down, a triumphant grin spreading across his face. “You need to come to terms with my inevitable victory, you know. You’ll feel much better.”

Cullen appeared to ignore him, studying the board—and then he deftly moved a piece, capturing the one Dorian had just set down, and leaned back with a broad smile. “And yet I just won—and I feel fine.”

The two men stared at one another across the board, victor and vanquished. Dorian shook his head, but he was pleased to have been fairly beaten, Bridget could see. And it was good for him, too, she felt. “Don’t get smug,” he said to Cullen. “There’ll be no living with you.”

“Just as there’s already no living with you?” Bridget asked him as he got up from his seat.

“Ah, but smug is my natural look. No one would recognize me without it.” He squeezed her arm and walked off across the gardens, whistling.

Cullen began replacing the pieces in their starting positions for the next players. “I should return to my duties as well,” he said. “Unless—would you care for a game?”

“I’m not very good.”

“I’m certain you exaggerate.”

“No, I really don’t. I’m not very good at all. But I like to play—maybe you can teach me a few things.”

“Or perhaps you’ll find you’re better than you thought you were.”

“It’s been a while,” Bridget said as she took the seat Dorian had just vacated. “And my last chess partner was an eight-year-old.”

“An apprentice?”

“No, my … nephew.” She so rarely spoke of Declan that it was strange to bring him up in conversation as if everything was just as it seemed. 

“Your brother’s son?”

“Malachy, yes. He’s the current Bann. Declan will inherit.”

“Assuming he doesn’t have magic.”

Bridget looked up, startled. Did Cullen know? And then she relaxed, realizing that her magic was as troubling in the bloodline as if Declan were openly hers. “Yes. Assuming that.” She shrugged. “Who knows, maybe some part of this will allow the world to change and let him inherit even with magic.”

“Maybe.” Cullen didn’t sound convinced.

“Do you have siblings?”

“Yes. Two sisters and a brother.” As Cullen made his opening move, he chuckled. “I played chess with my sister when I was a child. She always got this stuck-up grin on her face when she won—not unlike Dorian’s. And she won _all_ the time, so you can imagine how tired I got of seeing it.”

“So you studied and learned to best her at the game.” Because of course he had.

Cullen looked up at her in surprise. “I did, yes. With my brother. The look on her face the day I finally won …” He shook his head, chuckling anew at the memory. “It was priceless.”

“Have you seen them recently?”

The smile disappeared from his face as if it had never been. “Not in years. Between serving with the Templars and the Inquisition, I … There’s been no time.” Half to himself, he added, “I wonder if she still plays.”

“Where are they now?”

“They moved to South Reach after the Blight.”

“I’d be happy to arrange a temporary furlough for you if you want to go visit them.”

“Oh. Oh, no. Thank you, Inquisitor, but the work takes precedent, at the moment.”

Bridget would have argued, but there was something in his face that said he didn’t want her to. “How old were you when you left?”

“Thirteen.”

“That’s young.”

He nodded. “I had a time convincing my father to let me go, but I wanted to learn, very much. And there was so much. In addition to weapon and combat training, initiates must also memorize portions of the Chant, study history, and sharpen their mental focus.”

“That’s a lot to ask from a young man.”

“It was—but I relished the challenge.”

Bridget grinned. “Of course you did.”

Cullen smiled, nodding. “I have not changed—not in that way, at least,” he added, the smile disappearing. “I wanted to learn everything. If I was to give my life to the work, I would be the best Templar I could.”

“Were you?”

The look on his face gave Bridget a sudden chill. “Not always.” He put his head down and concentrated on the game for a few moments. Then he looked up again, his face serious although not quite so stark. “I saw your report to Leliana. First the Templars, and now the Grey Wardens. Is there anyone in Thedas Corypheus can’t touch? Both devoted their lives to fighting evil, and now they serve it.”

“Cullen.” Bridget held a piece tightly in her hand, the game forgotten for the moment. “If I were possessed by a demon, would you—“

“Without hesitation.” He swallowed, and in a noticeably softer tone added, “But I hope to the Maker such a thing never comes to pass.”

“As do I. But it’s good to know you’re there.”

“Thank you. Our initial meeting was …” 

“You thought I caused the Conclave.”

“Yes. And I was still … still very much the person I was in Kirkwall. I hope the Inquisition has helped me to begin to move past that man.”

Bridget placed her piece, then reached across the board to touch the back of his hand. “This is a start. The first time we’ve ever done anything together that wasn’t strictly Inquisition business.”

“To be honest, I appreciate the distraction.” 

“You can’t be serious all the time.” Bridget grinned. “Well, maybe _you_ can.”

Cullen laughed. “No doubt I deserved that.”

“You work too hard.”

“So I’ve been told. Usually by Varric.”

“He does think we’re all his characters to control, doesn’t he?” Cullen moved a piece and Bridget stared at the board in dismay. “And now you’ve gone and won the game.”

“Yes, I’m afraid I did.”

She looked up and saw the grin on his face. “You enjoyed that far too much.”

“I admit, I did,” Cullen agreed, getting to his feet. “It’s nice to know there’s something you aren’t good at.”

Bridget rose, as well, sighing. “Far too many things, I’m afraid.”

“You couldn’t tell it by the Inquisition,” Cullen assured her.

“Thank you. I appreciate your support.”

“And you have it, Inquisitor. Fully.” He gave her a small bow and headed off in the direction of his office.

Bridget felt she should probably go see about some of the things that had piled up on her desk while she was in Crestwood as well. But in a shaded arbor half-obscured by roses, she thought she saw a familiar figure: Cassandra, deeply engrossed in a book. Wanting to check in with her friend, and curious as to what Cassandra was reading that was holding her attention so avidly, Bridget walked over and poked her head around the rose branches covering the arbor. “Good book?”

Cassandra leaped out of her seat, the book disappearing behind her back so quickly Bridget didn’t even see it move. “Ah! Inquisitor. You’re back.”

“Yes.”

“Good trip?”

“Rainy. Muddy. Walking dead. The usual.”

Cassandra smiled a little. “But you all returned home safely.”

“Yes, we did—and don’t think we’re off the subject. What were you reading that had you so fascinated?”

“Just … reports. From Commander Cullen.”

Bridget didn’t bother to dignify that attempt at a lie with a response, and as they looked at each other, it was clear Cassandra knew it wasn’t believable.

“You wouldn’t be interested.”

“Now, how do you know that? Maybe I would.”

“Fine,” Cassandra snapped. She pulled the book out from behind her back and handed it to Bridget.

The garish cover and the red-headed guardsman on the front were easily recognizable, and Bridget had to stifle a startled giggle before she offended her friend deeply. “This is _Swords & Shields_. Varric’s book.”

“I know that.”

“It’s the latest chapter.” She looked up at Cassandra. “You’re a fan?”

“I … yes. We’ve been so busy, I wanted to get caught up. I … got lost in the story.” She blushed. “It’s literature!”

“Smutty literature,” Bridget amended.

Cassandra coughed. “Well … yes.” She got to her feet, looking intently at Bridget. “Whatever you do, don’t tell Varric.”

“Oh, you have to be joking. You expect me to sit on this?”

“Yes.”

“But Varric would be tickled to have another fan.”

“Varric would never let me hear the end of it,” Cassandra growled.

Bridget had to admit that was true. Still … Cassandra and Varric’s hostility to one another was a problem for everyone. Particularly herself, since it meant they could barely stand to be in the same room. 

Cassandra took the book back, running her fingers over the cover. “They’re terrible,” she said, “but magnificently so. And this one ends in a cliffhanger! I know Varric is working on the next. He must be! But he would never tell me.”

“He might tell me.”

“Yes—you could find out, and then tell me. Would you?”

“Perhaps.” If Varric would be willing to present Cassandra with a copy of his next chapter, maybe that would go toward reconciling the two of them. It was worth a try. She smiled at her friend. “Who would have guessed that under that taciturn shell beats a true romantic heart?”

Cassandra frowned at her. “Pretend you don’t know this about me.”

“Why?”

“Because it is no one else’s concern. And why should it be such a surprise? After all, romance is not the sole province of dithering ladies in frilly dresses. It is _passion_. It is being swept away by an ideal. What is not to like about that?”

“You paint a compelling picture. Just not one most people would associate with you.”

“I do not need anyone imagining me mooning over stolen kisses.”

“I suppose it would depend on who the kisses were stolen from.” Bridget smiled. “Any candidates?”

“No,” Cassandra said shortly, but Bridget wondered if perhaps the answer had come too soon. Her speculation must have shown in her face, because Cassandra groaned. “I am never going to live this down, am I?”

“Probably not,” Bridget agreed.

“Ugh.” Cassandra shook her head and repeated her earlier demand. “Please. Pretend you do not know this about me.”

She stalked off. Bridget watched her go, smiling, and called after her, “Not a chance,” laughing outright as Cassandra flung up a hand and waved it at her in an irritated gesture of helplessness.

Bridget made her way back into the keep, but the prospect of looking over the piles on her desk was no more appetizing than it had been, and instead she ducked into Josephine’s office. 

The Ambassador was leaning back in her desk chair, laughing, while Leliana leaned a shoulder casually against the wall telling a story, her face far more animated than Bridget had ever seen it. Hating to interrupt their moment of relaxation, Bridget was about to withdraw, when Josephine looked up and saw her.

“Inquisitor! Do come in.” She sat up straight, the smile giving way to a more business-like expression. Bridget was sad to see it; the way people jumped to attention, assuming that her presence meant work to do, made her feel as though she only had one role in this place. Perhaps that was what drew her to Blackwall—no matter what, he always saw Bridget instead of the Inquisitor.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said now, feeling shy in the presence of these two very formidable women.

“We were only discussing some mutual acquaintances,” Leliana said. “Lady Forsythia has sent us a message that she’d rather drown herself than help the Inquisition.”

Bridget blinked. “That seems drastic.”

“You do not know Lady Forsythia. That would be all in a day’s work for her.”

“Not that she ever does any work,” Leliana added. “Far be it.”

“Perish the thought,” Josephine agreed, chuckling.

“She also said she’d have us ‘flogged alive’ if we allied with her brother.”

“Does she understand what flogging actually is?”

Leliana shrugged. “It’s hard to know exactly what she does understand. But we have her attention, and that is what matters at the moment.”

“If you say so.” Josephine looked up at Bridget. “We are in the midst of cementing an alliance with Lady Forsythia, if you can’t tell.”

“That sounds like it isn’t going well.”

“You’d be surprised how quickly a person can go from ‘I’ll have you flogged alive’ to pledging their men and money to a cause, given the right … persuasion.” Leliana nodded to Bridget. “Speaking of, I should get back to work.” She glided from the room, her soft shoes making no sound.

Bridget looked back at Josephine, dismayed. “The two of you were having a moment of relaxation and I got in your way. I do apologize!”

“Not at all, Inquisitor.” Josephine looked toward the door, her face softening. “Leliana would not have lasted much longer in friendly conversation anyway.”

“The two of you both work too hard,” Bridget observed. “You should take more time to relax. Neither of your jobs is easy.”

“You are not to worry, Inquisitor. It’s no less intense than my days at court.”

“Couldn’t you please call me Bridget? I’m no different than I was before I took this job.”

“You make an excellent point … Bridget.” Josephine smiled. “It is particularly helpful to talk with Leliana, as she knows so many of the people I deal with on a regular basis, and I have few others with whom to discuss these issues.”

“You can always talk to me. I don’t know the people, but I would be happy to listen.”

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t wish to impose. You are busy as well.”

“If it were imposing, I wouldn’t have offered.”

“Well … in that case, there are a few potential alliances it would be helpful to consider …” Josephine gestured to the two comfortable chairs near the fire. “Let us be cozy while we talk, however. And I will ring for some tea, if you like?”

“That would be lovely, thank you. After all that rain and mud in Crestwood, I can’t get enough warmth—or tea.”

Josephine shuddered delicately, moving across the office to take a chair. “I can only imagine. It must have been a relief to return to Skyhold, no?”

“Such a relief,” Bridget agreed. “You and Cullen have done wonders with the place. When I think what it was like when we arrived …”

“Oh, I know! Foundation cracks, nesting animals, miles from any center of civilization …” Josephine looked around her beautifully appointed office with satisfaction. “Our visitors have been pleased with the improvements we have made.”

“That must help with diplomacy.”

“Yes, indeed. People feel safe here now, which counts for much.”

Bridget leaned toward the Ambassador, searching her face. “Have you had trouble feeling safe here?”

Josephine looked down at her hands, her fingers twisting her delicate handkerchief. “I confess, I had … trouble forgetting the attack on Haven. I—Do you know who first leaped to our defense there? Our workers. They were so proud of our work … and Corypheus simply cut them down. So much screaming after that first blast of fire, so many people turned to ash.” She closed her eyes. 

“I know. I keep feeling that fire’s heat on the back of my neck.” Bridget tried to push the memories away, the sickening feeling of failure and defeat that had fallen so heavily on her shoulders, but it was difficult to do.

“But you are the one who led us here—to safety. We have much to be grateful for.” Josephine sat up straight and plastered on her ambassadorial smile as the staff brought in the tea and a tray of fruit and sandwiches. Pouring the tea, she said, “Lady Regan of Ferelden was here last week, surveying the premises.”

“I hope you told her Skyhold isn’t for sale,” Bridget said dryly, accepting the cup.

Josephine chuckled. “I am not certain she believed me. She also seemed quite taken with the Iron Bull. I am not certain she believed he was not for sale, either.”

“If I know Bull, he probably let her think what she wished to think … and got a fair amount of information from her himself.” Bridget wasn’t always comfortable with the big Qunari, but she had to admit he was very good at getting information—and willing to do just about anything in the process.

“Indeed.” Josephine cleared her throat. “She rode a horse in the gates … but was carried out on a litter. She said it was for appearances’ sake, to impress Lord Carstairs, who happened to be arriving at the same time—but given that Lord Carstairs is old enough to be her grandfather, and that Bull’s horns left a scrape on the doorframe of the room she had been given …” 

“Say no more.” Bridget chuckled, leaning back in her seat, although behind her amusement she was thinking of what Bull and Lady Regan must have done, and how long it had been since she’d been in that particular position … and, of course, of Blackwall. Hastily, she said, “Anyone else of interest come to visit recently?”

Josephine must have been thinking along the same lines, because with equal haste she launched into a story of a Rivaini guest who had tried to take Varric on at Wicked Grace, and had not been particularly gracious about losing to a dwarf, and then went on to talk about a young man from the Anderfels who had nearly fallen off the battlements in a drunken fight with one of the soldiers over some pretended slight. 

As they sipped their tea and talked, the time slipped by, until Josephine looked up, startled to see that the sun was setting. “Oh, my! Inq—Bridget, I am so sorry to have taken up so much of your time!”

“No, no,” Bridget assured her. “I’m the one who should be apologizing for monopolizing your time.” She got to her feet.

Josephine stood, as well, holding out a hand and clasping one of Bridget’s. “I very much enjoyed this, Bridget. Thank you; I didn’t realize quite how much I needed a break.”

“It’s too easy to get caught up in work. I’m here any time you need to take a moment and breathe. Well … except when I’m not here, that is.” She smiled.

“I understand.” Josephine nodded at her, and Bridget took that as her cue to exit the Ambassador’s office.

She wasn’t particularly hungry, so she moved around the room talking to people who were relaxing over their dinners before making up a hasty sandwich to take up to her room. She had her own kettle over her fire for tea, so she could be quite cozy tonight going over the things on her desk. They had waited far too long.

Deep in perusal of a note from Josephine regarding the ball at the Winter Palace they were planning to attend, Bridget didn’t hear the knock on the door below until it had become insistent. Darkness had fallen in the time she’d spent, and she’d made a fair amount of headway on the stack, but there was more to be done, and she was working well. Whoever this visitor was, she hoped it wouldn’t take long.

She went to the stairs and called down, “Who is it?”

There was a pause, and she wondered if perhaps the person had given up and gone away. Then a familiar voice came through the door. “Blackwall.”

Her heart thumped heavily in her chest, all thoughts of the papers on her desk utterly vanquished with the single word. He had never come to her quarters before. If he was coming now, so late at night … “Come up,” she said breathlessly.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The door opened and Blackwall looked up, seeing her leaning over the railing. She had taken down her braid, and it swung heavily over her shoulder. As he came up the stairs, he saw that she was barefoot, the top few buttons of her jacket open. She looked so delectably tempting, so much as though she had been waiting for him …

He hadn’t been certain of himself coming up here, hadn’t been sure if he wanted to tell her the truth or if he just wanted to be with her, but now he knew, as surely as he knew he had no business being here.

Bridget smiled at him. “I knew you couldn’t stay away.”

Against his better judgment, Blackwall smiled back. “No, I couldn’t. If only you knew how confounding you are, how impossibly infuriating.”

“I do try.”

“You succeed.” Her eyes were warm and bright and happy—for him. It was intoxicating. He swallowed hard. “I … wanted to thank you for accompanying me to that ruin. I wanted to— I just had to see you.” The final words came out in a rush, even as he was reaching for her, even as she swayed into his arms and lifted her mouth for the kiss he couldn’t help but take. Her bed was just there, he could—

Blackwall pulled away, and Bridget frowned. She could sense the conflict in him, and she wished she knew what it was about so that she could put his fears to rest.

“No,” he said. “This is wrong. I shouldn’t even be here.”

“It doesn’t feel wrong,” she told him. “What’s the problem, Blackwall? Please tell me. Did you take a vow of celibacy? Do you have a wife somewhere, or did you have one?”

“What? No. It’s nothing like that,” he protested, and she believed him. “I want to give in; Maker knows how much I wish I could, but I’m not what you want. I could never be what you deserve.”

“Is it because you’re a Warden? You have a higher obligation to fulfill?” Maker, she hoped not. While she appreciated that he was an honorable man, she wanted him too much, had come to care for him too much, not to be bitterly disappointed if he walked out of here tonight.

He hesitated. “All I am, all I have, I gave to the Wardens.”

“I know.” It was hard to push the two words out past the lump in her throat.

“But you— This— No.” Blackwall shook his head. “I thought I was strong enough to deny this.”

“Why?”

“Because … because … You shouldn’t throw yourself away on me. I’m not worthy of you.”

Bridget put a hand on his cheek, turning his head so that he had to look down at her. “You’re wrong. You’re a good man.”

“Am I?” He wanted to believe it, to see himself through her eyes.

She nodded. “I see it.”

He tried, one last time, to avoid the inevitable. “There’s nothing I can offer you. You’d have no life with me. But I—I need you to end this, because I can’t.”

For a moment, he thought she might, as she stood looking up at him. Then she smiled and shook her head. “I’m not letting you go.”

Even as he stepped forward and put his arms around her, he had to tell her the truth. “We’ll regret this, my lady.” But her face was so close to his, her nose bumping against his, and he didn’t care. Not enough to tear himself away from her.

Bridget reached up and kissed him, a gentle kiss, like a raindrop. “Do you regret that?”

Blackwall could deny himself, deny her, no longer. He kissed her, allowing himself to drown in the warmth that rose in him, pressing her back until her legs hit the railings.

She reached out with one arm to catch herself on the rail, then wound both arms around his neck, her mouth opening beneath his, inviting the first touch of his tongue on hers.

They lost themselves in kisses, one after another, heated, hungry kisses fueled by the passion that had been building between them for so long. 

Bridget’s hands went to his jacket, seeking the toggles that held it closed, and unfastened them, shoving the jacket back off his shoulders. She tugged his thin shirt out of his pants and slid her hands beneath it, enjoying the moan he gave at her first contact with his bare skin. He threw his head back, his eyes closing, and she kissed his throat and his collarbones, bunching the shirt up between her seeking hands and her hungry mouth.

At last he pulled back altogether and stripped it off, standing bare-chested before her. He was the most muscular man she had ever been with, by far, his arms corded and his chest thick, with a heavy layer of hair. She rubbed her cheek against it, finding it soft to the touch.

It seemed strange to her to be standing in the middle of a room disrobing slowly, with no concern for being interrupted. “This is the first time—“

He stopped her in the middle of the sentence, looking horrified. “Your first time?”

“No, no! Definitely not. Just the first time I’ve had leisure. In the Circle, you were always worried a Templar might interrupt you, or another mage. It was always very hasty.”

“Ah. In that case, my lady, I intend to take my time.” His voice dropped low, sending a shiver through her as he whispered in her ear, his beard brushing the side of her neck. Bridget’s head fell back as he held her in his arms, his mouth moving slowly, with tender little kisses, along the curve of her ear and the line of her jaw and down the column of her throat. He ran into the chain, then, the locket shifting into the space left by her open jacket collar, and she clutched for it.

Blackwall released her, then, and she regained her footing, unclasping the locket and laying it carefully in a drawer by the bed. “That’s special to you.”

“Yes.”

“A gift?”

There was a stiffness in his tone that surprised her, and she turned to see him with his shirt in his hand, as though he contemplated leaving. “It’s a … family heirloom,” she said faintly. Maker, she should tell him now, she thought. But he wouldn’t notice—her pregnancy had left very little trace on her skin—and now was hardly the time. And the locket was a family heirloom; it had been her grandmother’s. “Nothing more. Did you—“ She frowned at him. Was that the reason he had pulled away so often, because of the locket? “Did you think it was to do with a former lover?”

“Yes,” he admitted.

“It isn’t.” It wasn’t, really. Mykal had meant so little to her. She wasn’t even sure he knew about the pregnancy—he had been whisked away so quickly after the Templars had found out. “Truly.” She walked over to Blackwall, taking the shirt from his hands. “This is … You’re different. I’m different. Before—there was never any future. In the Circle, tomorrow promised to be the same as yesterday, on and on until we all died. But here, tomorrow can be anything. I’m free to choose at least part of what it will hold. And tonight, tomorrow, the day after—I want them to hold you, Blackwall.”

He pressed his forehead against hers, relieved, but not relieved. If her emotions were engaged elsewhere, if she still loved someone from her past, then perhaps he wasn’t doing so much damage. But he would have hated knowing she still clung to an old love. He wanted to be in her heart and on her mind and in her bed—him and him alone.

“Blackwall,” she whispered again. Then, she asked, “What is your first name? I’m not sure I’ve ever asked.”

He was certain she must have felt the way he started at the question. She hadn’t asked; nor had anyone else. No one ever asked. He wasn’t even certain if _he_ had asked. The real Blackwall must have had a name, but he no longer remembered it, if he had ever known it in the first place. “Blackwall is fine, my lady.”

“You can tell me.” Her little fingers were caressing the back of his neck, making it very hard to think. And he found he almost wanted her to know, that he wanted to make an attempt to reclaim at least this one piece of who he used to be.

“Only for you, then.” The last thing he needed was to have her call him by the wrong first name in front of someone who might know the difference. Then he had a stroke of genius. “My mother always called me by my middle name, Thom.”

“Thom.” She looked up at him, the light from her eyes caressing his face as her fingers had his neck. “It suits you. Kiss me, Thom.”

“My pleasure, my lady.” He stopped her mouth with a long kiss, working the buttons on her velvet jacket at the same time, sliding it down her arms. He dropped to his knees in front of her, pushing up the silk camisole she wore and kissing her belly. It was faintly rounded, the skin soft beneath his lips. He pushed the camisole up further, kissing his way up her ribcage. She took over, lifting the fabric up the rest of the way, pulling the garment up and over her head, reaching around to unfasten her breastband and drop it on the floor next to them. 

He worshipped her breasts with fingers and tongue and mouth, as she gasped and sighed with the pleasure. It had been a long time since he had touched a woman like this, and he’d been afraid he’d lost his touch. But Thom Rainier had known how to give pleasure, and Blackwall was glad to have kept at least this much of who he had once been.

His free hand made its way up her thigh and cupped her, finding the seat of her pants already damp against him. Bridget cried out, her hips jerking against his touch. “Please, Blackwall. Thom.”

Blackwall got to his feet, trying to remove her pants and his own at the same time. Bridget giggled as he fumbled about, pushing his hands away and removing the rest of her clothing herself while he hastily worked himself out of his.

She lay back across the bed, her arms reaching out for him, and he eagerly joined her, both moaning into each other’s mouths at the first contact of naked skin against naked skin. They kissed some more, bodies shifting against each other, building up the friction until Bridget couldn’t wait any longer. She reached for him, stroking him while he pressed his head against his shoulder and his hips more firmly into her touch, his breathing heavy and fast and harsh against her skin. And then she guided him into her, lifting her hips as he filled her slowly.

“Maker,” he whispered.

“Mm.” Bridget wrapped one leg around his hip, the angle shifting as she did so that he reached just the right spot, a wave of pleasure pouring through her. He moved again, and again, going slowly so that he could watch her face change with each stroke, her eyes closing and her mouth going slack, her moans increasing in volume as she came closer to the pinnacle.

He was moving faster now, unable to help himself, craving more and more. He could feel it building, the tension rising higher and higher until he could hold it back no longer. Bridget’s hands were clutching him, her nails digging into his back as she held him more tightly against her, moving with him, their bodies slick with sweat.

The waves poured over them in a flood, their voices mingling until their mouths found each other again. 

They lay like that for a long time, exchanging kisses as their breathing came back to normal and their bodies cooled. At last, Bridget sighed, shifting into him so that her head was tucked against his shoulder. “Wow.” 

“Is that right?” he chuckled, kissing her temple, his fingers stroking her hair where the braid was starting to come loose.

“I mean, it’s been a while since I’ve done that, but … I don’t remember it ever being quite like that.”

“See what happens when you can take your time?”

“You’ve entirely spoiled me for quick fumbles in the halls,” she agreed sleepily.

“Well, don’t knock a quick fumble, my lady,” he said, his voice a low growl as he thought of the possibilities.

“Mm. We’ll see.” She rubbed her nose against him, turned her head to the side, gave a little sigh of contentment, and was asleep, as suddenly as a child might be.

Blackwall lay awake for a little longer, looking out through the balcony doors at the stars, forcing himself not to think about the consequences of this step and instead to think of the beautiful, strong, funny, tender, passionate woman he held in his arms. Whatever consequences were to come, whatever pain there would inevitably be, he hoped as much of it as possible fell on his shoulders instead of hers.


	23. The Fearful and the Foolish

When Blackwall woke in the morning, the bed was empty, the sunlight streaming in through the open balcony windows. He began to stretch, thinking with pleasure of the night before. Then the enormity of what he had done struck him, the extent to which he had cemented himself in the lie that was his life, and he sat bolt upright, heart pounding.

Bridget came in from the balcony, already fully dressed. “I wondered when you would wake up,” she said, smiling at him. “I wore you out, it seems.”

“I—it appears that you did, my lady.” Despite the guilt, she looked so beautiful, so happy, that he couldn’t help smiling back at her. “But it seems I might need to work harder to wear you out next time.”

Next time? What was he saying? There couldn’t be a next time. But as she sank onto the bed next to him and reached for him, he couldn’t help but respond to her kiss. Of course there would be a next time, and a next, and a next. 

He stroked her cheek. “You are so beautiful.”

She rubbed her cheek against his hand, her eyes closing. Then she sighed and pulled away. “Duty calls, I’m afraid. I have a War Room meeting in just a few minutes. You should stay, though—there’s tea hot in the kettle, and you should take a swim in the tub. It’s celestially comfortable.”

“Really, my lady, there’s no need. I can …”

“There is every need.” Looking down at him, her eyes softened. “I haven’t had anyone to care for in a long time, and no means with which to care for anyone … ever. Now that I have both, I want to enjoy it. Please let me, Thom.”

“If it means so much to you.” He got to his feet, careless of his own state of nudity, and kissed her again.

“It does. We—we didn’t talk about this, but … I want you here with me, Blackwall. Every night, and every morning.”

He closed his eyes. He wanted that, too, but he had no right. “You’re the Inquisitor. I can’t. _You_ can’t. Not an itinerant Grey Warden with no ties. Josephine would throw a fit.”

“Let her. The itinerant Grey Warden with no ties is everything I’ve ever wanted,” Bridget said softly, “and I won’t give him up, not for Josephine or anyone else.” Her hand curved around the back of his neck and she lifted herself on her toes, her eyes very wide and very blue. “Please, Blackwall. Unless … unless that isn’t what you want …”

He hated the clouds of doubt that dimmed the blue of her eyes. “Yes, it is. Very much so,” he assured her huskily.

“Then it’s settled?”

“I—yes. It’s settled.” In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought. One of his mother’s sayings. His father’s equivalent was ‘might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb’, but that one came uncomfortably close to the truth. 

“Good.” She put her hands on his chest, her fingers twining themselves in his chest hair. “And do take a luxurious bath—it’ll give me something happy to think about while I’m stuck in a boring meeting.”

“Maybe I should wait and take it later when you can be with me.” The idea of her wet and soapy in his arms was having an obvious effect on him, and Bridget hummed with pleasure.

“I like the way you think. Hold that thought until tonight, then.”

“Oh, I will, my lady.”

She chuckled, and left the room, her footsteps light and quick and happy on the stairs. Left alone, Blackwall groaned aloud. He had made things so much worse through his own weakness. If he could only have stayed away—but he couldn’t have. He loved her; there was every indication that she loved him. At what point would the effort of staying apart have been more hurtful than the potential consequences of being together? How soon would he have had to tell her about himself to avoid breaking her heart? Because they were past that point now, and had been past it for some time.

He was in a prison of his own making—a golden prison in which pleasure was its own punishment. But it was too late to get out without harming his jailor, and he didn’t want to.

Whatever the future brought, he would have to take the consequences, and do his best to keep them from landing on her too thoroughly.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Bridget practically bounced into the War Room, unable to keep the smile off her face. Last night had been … everything she had hoped for. More. She’d never even considered how much better it could be when there was time, and privacy, and the right man.

She managed to get the smile off her face for the meeting, but the looks exchanged between Josephine and Leliana, their twinkling eyes and little smirks at her, told her she hadn’t covered it quite thoroughly enough. Well, let them smirk, she thought. There was nothing wrong with the Inquisitor having a personal life, and Blackwall was a perfectly respectable choice. As a mage, her romantic life was never going to have been a bargaining chip, anyway. 

There had been word from Hawke—he and Stroud had arrived in the Western Approach, and preparations for the ritual were underway. 

“I’ll leave first thing in the morning,” Bridget said, looking down at the board and calculating distance.

Leliana frowned. “I wonder, Inquisitor … would it be worth your leaving today? It’s still early in the morning, and you could make good time. It seems as though time is of the essence.”

“I would tend to agree. The time you make up today could make a great deal of difference, if you are to catch them before the ritual begins,” Cullen said. He looked up at Bridget. “Would that alter your plans significantly?”

“I don’t think so. I have nothing planned for the day that can’t wait.” She glanced at Josephine. “Other than the meeting with Bann Alfstanna of Ferelden. Do you think she would mind rescheduling? I don’t know when I would be back.”

Leliana smiled. “I know Alfstanna—I met her during the Blight. She understands the needs of war. I will explain it to her myself.”

“Thank you.”

Flipping a few pages on her clipboard, Josephine said, “In that case, Inquisitor, I do not believe I have anything I can’t handle without you coming up. After all, the nobles are aware that you have many calls on your time that take you away from Skyhold. And if they are not, then this will be a good reminder to them.” 

“In that case, I will find my team and we’ll be off.” Bridget gave an inward sigh as she was forced to let go of her plans to ravish Blackwall in her deliciously large tub. Well, when they got back, then.

She sought out Blackwall in the stable. He put down his carving knife, the gryphon coming along nicely, and smiled at her as she approached. “My lady.”

“You are real. I wondered if I dreamed you.”

“I hope your dreams are better than that,” he murmured as she came into his arms.

Bridget lifted her face for a kiss. “No such thing.”

“You give me too much credit.” But he kissed her anyway, his lips soft and warm.

“I’m afraid I have bad news,” she told him as the kiss ended.

He raised his eyebrows.

“We have to leave for the Western Approach. Now, essentially.”

“Ah. Well, that’s not so terrible, then—we knew we’d have to go soon. I’m ready.” He indicated his battered travel satchel. “I’m used to picking up and moving on at a moment’s notice.”

“You won’t, though, will you?” she asked in a sudden flash of alarm.

“No. Not if you don’t wish me to.”

“I most emphatically do not wish you to.”

Blackwall shook his head, smiling. “I won’t pretend to understand it, my lady, but I am grateful for it.”

“Good. You can show me how grateful later.” She smiled at him.

His voice deepened to a growl that reverberated pleasantly through her body. “My pleasure.”

Bridget’s own preparations were fairly quick—an advantage to having spent her life with very few possessions, wearing functionally the same set of clothes every day. 

The trip to the Approach was exhausting, but the nights with Blackwall inside her tent helped immeasurably. They were pushing themselves to get there as quickly as possible, so after the first night, they were too weary even to make love, but just lying there in his arms, feeling his chest move against her cheek, was a luxury Bridget had never imagined possible. Cassandra ignored the situation almost entirely, choosing to talk books with Bridget during what downtime they had, and Cole pestered Blackwall with questions the Warden found almost impossible to answer. It was like speaking to a child, and he was uncertain whether opening Cole’s eyes to the realities of men and women was a kind thing to do or a ruin of the boy’s innocence.

At last they were in the Approach. Inquisition scouts were already in place there, and Hawke had given them directions to the ruined temple where the ritual was to take place.

Arriving at the temple, Bridget found Stroud and Hawke in the midst of an argument, while Fenris watched silently, as appeared to be his way, interjecting a remark occasionally. He appeared to be on Stroud’s side, which enraged Hawke.

As Bridget and her team approached, Stroud turned from the argument. “You are barely in time, Inquisitor! The ritual is already underway. We must stop it immediately!”

“Blood magic,” Fenris said succinctly. He spat on the ground, as though the very phrase tainted his mouth.

Hawke drew his daggers, nodding at Bridget. “You take point. Fenris and I will guard your backs.”

“Very well.” Bridget looked at Stroud. “Lead the way.”

He nodded briefly and turned to lead her inside the ruins.

She could smell the blood as they closed in, and as soon as they came through the door into the open area where the Wardens were congregated, she could see the bodies. They were too late, then. If she had pushed harder, could they have been here sooner? She’d gone as fast as the horses could stand, changing horses along the way, but had it been enough? Bridget glanced at Blackwall, who was looking down at the Warden bodies stony-faced.

Two Wardens stood with demons at their side, and another two were facing off in the center; one with a dagger pointed, the other unarmed. “No,” he moaned, as though it were only a token resistance and he had already lost. “No.” But he backed up, anyway, up a short flight of stairs. 

A man who was clearly not a Warden waited for him there, watching with smug satisfaction as the young Warden surrendered. “Warden-Commander Clarel’s orders were clear,” the non-Warden said.

“But, please! This is wrong!”

“Remember your oath: in war, victory; in peace, vigilance; in death …”

“Sacrifice,” Blackwall murmured at Bridget’s side, just as the Warden with the dagger slit the throat of his comrade.

“No!” Bridget cried out.

“Stop this!” Stroud shouted, stepping forward, his voice thick with anger and outrage.

A demon burst through what looked like a rift formed of blood; a rage demon, all fire and fury. As the non-Warden said urgently, “Now bind it as I showed you!” Bridget attacked the rage demon with ice. While it was chilled and sluggish, Blackwall hacked it to death. 

The Warden fell back, startled and unsure; the other Wardens on the platform were frozen, unmoving. It was almost as though they weren’t aware of what was happening.

The non-Warden rolled his eyes. “You couldn’t have waited just a few more moments? We were almost done.”

“I’m only sorry we didn’t arrive sooner.”

“Indeed.” His smile was not pleasant. “I take it you are the Inquisitor? Lord Livius Erimond of Vyrantium, at your service.”

“A Tevinter?” Cassandra asked in surprise. “Why are you here?”

“And not a Warden,” Stroud said with disapproval.

“But you are. The one Clarel let slip. Pity,” Erimond said. “Your blood could have been quite useful.” He turned his attention back to Bridget. “So you have come to stop me. Shall we see how that goes?”

She looked at the Wardens. “He is lying to you,” she told them. “He serves an ancient Tevinter magister who wants to unleash the Blight.”

They turned their faces in her direction, but their expressions did not change. Something about their demeanor turned Bridget’s stomach—it was as though they were no longer human.

“I see you have discovered the truth,” Erimond said. “Wardens, hands up!” he commanded, and they raised their hands. “Hands down,” and they put them down. 

“Corypheus has taken their minds,” Stroud whispered painfully.

“It’s more like they gave them to him,” Erimond corrected. “You see, they found the Calling so terrifying that they were willing to take help from anywhere.” He smirked. “Even Tevinter. And since it was my master who put the Calling into their little heads to begin with, we in the Venatori were prepared.”

“You bastards,” Blackwall growled.

Erimond’s smile remained, his sense of superiority almost palpable. “I went to Clarel full of sympathy, and together, we came up with a plan: raise a demon army, march into the Deep Roads, and kill the Old Gods before they wake.”

“I was wondering where the demon army would come into play.” Bridget tried not to think of that nightmare future she had seen in Redcliffe, but she remembered the demons attacking just at the end, remembered Blackwall sacrificing himself. She shivered.

For the first time, Erimond seemed surprised. “You knew about that, did you? Well, then—here you see it. Or, part of it.”

“I take it you didn’t inform Clarel that the ritual had the side effect of binding the Warden mages to Corypheus’s will.”

“It slipped my mind.” 

“What do you mean, part of it?” Cassandra demanded.

Erimond raised his eyebrows. “Oh, did you think you had stopped the ritual? By no means. The rest of the Wardens are elsewhere, waiting to build the demon army with which my master will conquer Thedas.”

“Why do the Wardens need to kill the Old Gods?” Bridget asked, the question directed to Stroud and Blackwall as much as to Erimond.

“A Blight occurs when darkspawn find an Old God and corrupt it into an Archdemon,” Stroud told her. “If you could kill them before they had a chance to be corrupted, a new Blight couldn’t begin.”

“The Wardens believe they are sacrificing their lives to save the world from the Blight once and for all.” Blackwall closed his eyes. “As a method of manipulation, it’s well chosen.”

Erimond sketched a courtly bow. “Thank you. Fear is a very good motivator—and they were very afraid.”

“They tried to be heroes, and this is where it got them.” Blackwall shook his head. “This is …”

“A perversion of everything the Grey Wardens stand for,” Stroud finished. “I will kill you for this.”

“You are welcome to try.”

“Release the Wardens from their binding and surrender,” Bridget commanded, anger surging through her veins. “I won’t ask twice.”

“No. You won’t.” Erimond reached out his arm, magic pooling around his hand so thickly Bridget could almost see it—and then her Anchor sparked, the light engulfing her whole hand, bringing her to her knees in pain. 

“Stop!” Blackwall shouted.

Erimond smiled. “The Elder One showed me how to deal with you, should you be foolish enough to interfere again.” 

Bridget fought to her feet, raising her hand, and she dispersed the collected energy from it as she had learned to do after the avalanche at Haven, breaking the magical link between her hand and Erimond, and sending him reeling backward. “I know a few things about my mark that your master doesn’t,” she said. 

“Wardens, attack!” Erimond cried out weakly, clutching his hand to his chest.

They did, and by the time the Wardens and their bound demons were dead, Erimond was gone.

Hawke and Fenris came running, drawn by the sound of combat, and looked around at the carnage, dismayed. “So we were too late.”

“Yes. I’m sorry.” Bridget looked at Blackwall, and then at Stroud, as she spoke.

“Through this ritual, the mages are slaves to Corypheus—and we have no way to reach the others before the ritual can be completed.” Stroud’s eyes were filled with tears. He turned away, fighting to get himself under control.

“What about those Wardens who aren’t mages?” Hawke asked.

“They are the sacrifice,” Blackwall said bluntly.

Hawke closed his eyes and shook his head, one hand reaching out for Fenris’s. The elf held his hand tightly. “Of course,” Hawke said. “It isn’t real blood magic until someone gets sacrificed.”

“Human sacrifice, demon summoning … Who hears those things and thinks they are an answer?” Cassandra asked, looking around her with anger and disapproval.

“The fearful and the foolish,” Fenris said. “Those who think only of resolving their terror and not of the cost.”

“They were wrong, but they had their reasons.” Stroud shook his head. “Misguided though they were.”

“Blood mages always have reasons, stories they tell themselves to justify their decisions,” Fenris countered.

Hawke nodded. “In the end, you are always alone with your actions.”

Stroud shook his head, moving away from the two men to look through a crack in the wall out across the Approach. “I believe I may know where they are, Inquisitor. There is an abandoned Warden fortress out here, called Adamant. And it is as strong as it sounds.”

“We have to get there. We can’t allow Corypheus to gain an army of demons.”

“More easily said than done. Adamant was built to be impregnable; it will take an army to attack it.”

Bridget nodded. “Then I will return to the Inquisition camp and send a raven to Skyhold—I can have the Inquisition armies here within a week.”

“Do it,”Stroud agreed. He looked at Hawke. “If you will, we can scout out Adamant and confirm my suspicions.”

“I am at your service.”

“Thank you.”

They all left the ruins, Hawke and Stroud and Fenris heading off to the west, Bridget and her people returning to the Inquisition camp. Blackwall was silent most of the way there, Cassandra and Cole forging ahead as Bridget hung back at her lover’s side, waiting until he was ready to speak.

“The Wardens …” he said at last. “It … it should never have been like that.”

“They thought they were ending the Blights for good. They meant well.”

“They were manipulated, and easily, too. I thought better of them.”

“Fear is a powerful thing.”

Blackwall nodded. “We need to get the army here as soon as possible. If there’s any chance we can stop Corypheus from destroying the Wardens who remain, we can’t let it slip through our fingers.”

“We won’t,” she assured him. “Do you know anything about Adamant? I’ve never heard of it before.”

He shook his head. “I know very little. The Wardens like their layers of secrets.”

“So I’m gathering.”

“I can only imagine that what we find there will be a nightmare.”

“Well, I’ve already lived through more than one of those.” Bridget smiled at him. “Largely thanks to you.”

“You don’t do yourself enough credit.” 

“You see? So between the two of us, whatever we find there, we’ll get through it.”

He stopped walking to look at her, his blue eyes intense. “Do you promise, my lady?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.” 

“Then I’ll believe you.”


	24. Sacrifice

Living in Haven, Bridget had thought she understood what an army camp was like, but now she realized she’d had no idea at all. Faster than she could have believed possible, Cullen got the army to the Western Approach, along with the rest of Bridget’s companions, and they set up, preparing for a siege of Adamant fortress.

The Wardens had retreated inside the stronghold, and Bridget and the other mages could feel the tears in the Veil that were occurring nightly. Bridget’s stomach lurched sickeningly with each new rip—each was one more mage lost. It appeared that the Wardens, and Erimond, assuming he was there, which he must be, were taking their time, unhurried, getting it right, and she was grateful for that. Maybe there would be someone left to save after all.

Leliana’s scouts had found no breaches in the walls, but they said the defenses on the battlements were weak, so Cullen determined that the best course of action was a frontal assault. Trebuchets, ladders to scale the walls and storm the battlements, and Bridget and her people in through the front door.

He looked over the desert in the direction of the fortress, just out of sight over a rise, and sighed. “Adamant fortress has stood against the darkspawn since the time of the Second Blight.” There was a wistfulness in his tone; an excellent scholar, Cullen enjoyed history and had a certain reverence for artifacts. He brightened, then, Cullen the Commander taking over from Cullen the historian. “On the other hand, that means that it was built before the age of modern siege equipment.” He glanced affectionately at the trebuchets. “Those should be quite effective.”

“There’s still going to be an army of demons inside where the Wardens should be,” Blackwall growled. He stood on Bridget’s other side, a dark cloud in the midst of the sunny day. He was increasingly withdrawn as the time ticked by, and Bridget couldn’t blame him for it. These were his comrades in arms being destroyed as the army assembled; the time dragged by for him. For her, too. Nightmares in which she couldn’t escape the red lyrium future she’d witnessed in Redcliffe, in which she failed here and allowed that demon army she remembered all too vividly loose in Thedas, plagued her sleep. Even Blackwall’s presence in her tent hadn’t helped, especially since his own nightmares kept him tossing and turning as well.

Cullen nodded. There was evidence in his face that he wasn’t sleeping any too well himself. She wondered if this was particularly hard for him, being out in the field without lyrium, but Cullen was too proud, too private a man to ask that question, especially in front of others, and he and she were both constantly surrounded by people asking them questions. “The Inquisition forces can breach the gate,” he said now to Blackwall, “but against a demon army …”

“That’s my job,” Bridget said stoutly. In many ways, she would rather face demons than people. Demons deserved to be killed, sent back to the Fade. They didn’t belong here. And they didn’t scare her. Unlike many mages, her sleep had never been troubled by demons trying to find a way into this world through her. A little when she was pregnant, and more after, when she was vulnerable from the loss of Declan, but in general her magic had been weak enough, and of a harmless enough type, that demons had rarely hungered for her. She wondered with a sense of disquiet if demons were part of what was disrupting her sleep now. With the Veil thinning more with every tear, with her Anchor and her newfound sense of her own abilities, was she a more tempting morsel now? Well, all the more reason to take down that demon army once and for all, she told herself. “If you can get me to the Warden Commander, that’s all I ask.”

“We should be able to, Inquisitor. It’ll be hard-fought, no way around that, but we’ll get that gate open.”

“What of the Wardens we find inside?” Blackwall asked. “What will we do with them?”

Bridget put a hand on his arm. “We’ll hope that they will listen to reason.”

“They won’t turn against their Commander.”

“We won’t ask them to. We’ll ask them to stand down; that’s all.”

Blackwall looked doubtful, and Cullen frowned. “The mages are likely to be slaves to Corypheus,” he said. “I doubt you’ll be able to recover them.”

“Probably not,” Bridget agreed, “but I’m going to try. The Grey Wardens are a symbol of hope to all of Thedas. I won’t allow their honor to be lost here if I can help it.”

“Thank you.” Blackwall put his arm around her, squeezing lightly, and then let go, turning away from the fortress.

Bridget let him go, knowing he needed to be alone, to collect his thoughts.

“Will he be all right?” Cullen asked quietly.

“I think so. I hope so.”

“Will you take him with you?”

Bridget nodded. “I have to. Can you imagine what it would be like for him if I left him behind on this particular mission?”

“You’re not concerned about divided loyalties? Or the effects of Corypheus on him?” It was the closest Cullen, or any of the advisors, had come to commenting on Bridget’s open affair with Blackwall, and to his credit, Cullen sounded concerned more for Blackwall’s welfare than anything else.

“No. And if anything goes wrong, I’ll have Cole and the Iron Bull to help me.”

Cullen’s face darkened a bit at the mention of the spirit, but Bridget trusted the boy; and if the Veil was thin, having someone along who could safely cross between seemed like a good idea to her. “Very well, Inquisitor,” he said. “We will be ready to move out just before dusk tonight.”

“I’ll be with you,” she assured him.

She spied Varric sitting with Hawke and Fenris in front of a tent and walked over to join them. “Sunflower!” the dwarf said, smiling as he saw her coming. “Pull up some sand.”

“If it’s all the same to you, Varric, I’ll leave it where it is, thanks.” She found a spot in the shade of the tent. “Shouldn’t you all be resting?”

“Varric’s telling stories. That is restful,” Hawke said.

“For him,” Fenris added.

Hawke rolled his eyes at his lover, leaning his head against Fenris’s shoulder. He smiled at Bridget; Fenris gave her an unsmiling nod. She had learned that the elf distrusted all mages, and with good reason, and while she was saddened for him, she also understood, and didn’t take his coldness personally. He also seemed to be a very withdrawn person, very self-contained, in general … but occasionally you could catch him looking at Hawke with an openness and a vulnerability in his remarkable green eyes that told of an entirely different person inside, and Bridget was glad that he had found someone who made him feel that way. As she had found Blackwall, she thought, turning her face up toward the sun and trying not to think about tonight’s assault on an ancient fortress.

Silence fell on the little group, and Bridget felt badly for having disrupted their conversation. Bringing herself back to the moment, she said to Hawke, “Thank you both for being here. Whatever we find in there, we’re going to need as much help as we can get.”

“Thank you for standing out in the front,” Hawke replied. “The Inquisition is just what Thedas needed, and you are doing remarkably well at the helm.” Seeing that Bridget was uncomfortable with the praise, he looked up at Varric, grinning. “You did well.”

“Not me,” Varric protested. “I wanted to get out of here, to go home. You know, we have murderous Wardens and Archdemon attacks and plenty of blood mages and crazy Templars there, too.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Bridget said. “He insisted on staying. I was there, remember?” she added when Varric tried to protest.

“And I don’t remember an Archdemon attacking Kirkwall,” Hawke added.

“You must have missed it,” Varric told him. He gave Bridget a mock glare that made her laugh. “And don’t listen to this one—she was out of her head that day, didn’t know which end was up.”

“I knew you were the first person to treat me with kindness, and that hasn’t changed.” She reached out, patting him on the knee. “But I know how much you miss Kirkwall, and I appreciate all the time you’ve given to the Inquisition.”

“You should,” he sniffed. “Do you know they eat snails in Orlais?” He shook his head. “This is the ass end of Thedas.”

Hawke chuckled. “That’s not exactly the popular view of Orlais.”

“Few who extol the virtues of Orlais have been past Val Royeaux,” Fenris pointed out. He gestured to the vast expanse of sand around them. “This is hardly what they imagine.” He looked up at Varric. “Still, you are not leaving, are you?”

Varric couldn’t meet the elf’s eyes, or Hawke’s. “No,” he admitted reluctantly. “I … feel responsible for this. I need to finish it out. If it weren’t for me and Bartrand, none of this would ever have happened. We wanted to change our lives,” he muttered, “I guess we got what we wished for.”

“I suppose that’s what happens when you try to change things,” Hawke said. “They change.” He leaned harder against Fenris, whose slim lyrium-marked arm went fiercely around his lover, holding him tight.

“It was not your fault,” he growled.

“Wasn’t it?”

“No.”

“I wish I had your certainty.”

Bridget looked away, not wanting to intrude on an intimate moment.

“I think Sunflower came over here to get cheered up,” Varric said. “And we’re all doom and gloom. I blame you, elf.”

“It was not I who brought up the past,” Fenris reminded him.

Varric didn’t have a good answer to that, but he clearly wished he did as he sat glaring at Fenris.

Bridget shook her head, looking out across the sands. “Everyone’s doom and gloom right now. I wonder if it’s always like this before battle.”

“Ostagar wasn’t. We were so confident, so sure of ourselves,” Hawke said. “And look what happened. Let people brood, Inquisitor. They’ll get it out of their systems and be ready to fight later.”

She got to her feet, brushing sand off her pants, so glad she no longer had to wear heavy, cumbersome robes. “I hope you’re right.”

Eventually, she sought the peace and privacy of the inside of her tent, and at some point fell asleep. She woke only briefly when Blackwall joined her, feeling those strong arms closing around her and that warm body pressed against her.

They woke late in the afternoon, together. Bridget rolled over to look at him. “Are you all right?”

“Better. Sleep is good before a battle, want to go into it rested.”

“I’m glad you’ll be with me.”

“I wouldn’t be anywhere else, my lady.”

She stroked the side of his face, noting again the contrast between his skin, tanned from years outdoors, and hers, pale from a life spent largely indoors, grateful that someone of his skill and strength and heart had come into her life just when she needed him most. Then she kissed him, telling him without words just what he meant to her. His response was sweet, and hot, and tender, by turns, as he pressed her back against the blankets, cradling her head in the crook of his arm.

“Nothing will harm you today. I swear it,” he said at last, huskily.

“I trust you.”

There was a flash of pain in his eyes, she assumed because his fellow Wardens had fallen so easily, and then he pulled away. “We should get ready. Cullen will want everyone assembled.”

It turned out he was right. Cullen was walking between the lines of soldiers, offering comfort here and encouragement there and the hard voice of command where it was needed. Bridget glimpsed Sera among the archers, a bit surprised to see her there in formation. But when it came to arrows, Sera was one of the best. She was glad to have her there.

Varric had already gone forward with Hawke and Fenris, “just like old times”, as he had said it would be. Dorian was with the mages, rallying them with his cheery voice. Vivienne was there, too, offering support by her awesome presence. Most of the mages were terrified of her, so they would follow her implicitly.

Cassandra was with the troops, indomitable and strong and scowling, just a bit. They would follow her because they were frightened not to, as well. Two such strong women—Bridget could only wish to be as strong herself. Maybe not as frightening, but certainly as strong. She thought she glimpsed Solas among the mages, also, but he was less of a joiner, less of a leader, and more content to hang back, so no doubt that was what he was doing.

The Iron Bull was bellowing orders to his Chargers, but he came to Bridget’s side immediately, Cole walking with him. “You ready, boss? Should be a damned fine scrap.”

“Damned fine,” Bridget echoed weakly. “Of course.”

The Qunari laughed uproariously at her response. “We’ll get you there,” he said. He clapped Blackwall on the back. “What do you say? Even odds, or do I give you a handicap, three skulls and a pelvis?”

Blackwall rolled his eyes, but Bridget was glad to see a glimmer of a smile hidden in his beard. “Just try to keep up.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Cullen had raised his sword and was brandishing it, yelling, and all around Bridget the soldiers did the same. The mages raised their staffs, the archers their bows, and everyone yelled. It should have been deafening, frightening … but these were her people, they were fighting with her, for the future of all of Thedas, and Bridget found herself screaming with them, her pulse racing. It was time; she felt it.

Then the trebuchets launched, fireball after fireball flying toward the battlements. Above the noise of her army, Bridget could dimly hear the cries of those behind the walls, the screams of the injured and the dying. Those were Grey Wardens over there. They were attacking Grey Wardens, the defenders of Thedas. How had it come to this?

Corypheus. Looking at Blackwall, his mouth set grimly, a deep sadness in his eyes, Bridget vowed that she would make Corypheus pay for this indignity, this perversion of the Wardens from their Maker-granted purpose.

But for now, they needed to get in there. The ladders were being raised, landing against the battlements. Arrows and even rocks came down from the defenders, Inquisition people beginning to fall. Now Bridget saw Solas, darting in and out, lifting the wounded and carrying them from the field to the makeshift hospital tent the surgeon had set up. How naïve was she not to have thought of that? She was grateful all over again for the team of advisors behind her, who knew the details she would never have thought of.

A team of soldiers was drawing the battering ram up to the doors, pulling it back and ramming it forward again and again, despite the attacks from above, until the doors burst. 

At last, Bridget thought. She wanted to get in there, to finish it as quickly as she could, to save as many as she could from the killing that was going on. Soldiers were pouring through the broken gates, taking care of the defenders there, and Bridget nodded to her people. “Let’s go.”

The Iron Bull called out, “Yeah!” and led the way, Blackwall and Cole behind him. Cullen caught Bridget’s sleeve, raising his voice to be heard above the sounds of battle.

“You have your way in. Make the best use of it you can. We’ll keep the main host of demons occupied for as long as we can.”

From behind him came the scream of someone in mortal agony. Bridget shuddered at the sound, hating the necessity for people to die in this senseless clash when the person responsible wasn’t even here. “Just keep the men safe,” she shouted.

“We’ll do what we have to, Inquisitor! Warden Stroud had planned to sneak in—you should find him there. Hawke and Varric are on the battlements with our soldiers. They will find you when you arrive. Maker go with you!”

“And with you,” Bridget shouted back.

With a nod of acknowledgement, he was gone, answering a summons from someone farther back with the trebuchets, and Bridget had to begin her part of the battle. She turned to her people, who had taken care of everyone in the courtyard. “Ready?”

Cole nodded, the Iron Bull shouted, and Blackwall shifted his grip on his sword and turned toward the door that led to the interior of the keep.

It wasn’t so bad in the outer edges and up the stairs. Inquisition soldiers were on the battlements and the stairs, deeply embroiled fighting demons and Wardens, and Bridget and her team gave them assistance wherever it seemed needed, while moving steadily upward and toward the stairs that would lead them down into the central areas of the keep.

They heard Bianca before they found Varric and the others. Her distinctive ratchet and twang were audible even above the other noises of combat. 

“Hey, Sunflower,” Varric called. He swung Bianca in her direction and pulled the trigger, and behind Bridget a demon howled and fell back, where it was quickly finished off. “Exciting stuff.”

Hawke appeared next to them. “Do you need me with you, Inquisitor?”

“Not as much as they do,” she called back above the din. “Stay with these people and see that as many of them survive as possible.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Bridget didn’t see Fenris at first, and then she realized that she had taken him for a demon, with the lines of lyrium glowing all along his skin. She had to admit he was a rather beautiful sight, leaping from one opponent to the next. His blade was nearly as long as he was tall, but he wielded it well.

“Show off,” Varric muttered, and proceeded to take out three demons in a row with Bianca.

“Lot of that going around,” Bridget told him. She signaled her team to keep moving, and they took the stairs down into the center of the keep. Stroud was awaiting them at the bottom. He looked broken by all of this, as of course he would. These Wardens were his brothers and sisters; no doubt he knew many of them personally.

A group of Wardens awaited them just inside the doors that led into the central portion of the keep. Stroud went first, his arms up, picking out individual Wardens from the crowd. “Warden Chernoff, we are not enemies. Warden Bosch, we went through the Joining together! Warden Silva, I recruited you myself, off the streets of Antiva City! Please! Brothers and sisters—we do not have to fight one another.”

“Why should we trust you, Stroud?” asked a gruff voice from the center of the group.

A more feminine voice, husky and lightly accented, added, “You are a traitor to the Wardens. Clarel called for your death!”

Bridget added her voice to Stroud’s. “Please! The Inquisition is here to stop Clarel, to stop the ritual and save your fellow Wardens, not to harm you. If you fall back, you will be safe.”

There was confusion on some of the faces—was Corypheus’s hold on them slipping? Were they returning to their own sane minds? Bridget could only hope so. Two, a burly man with a greatsword and a slender woman with a pair of daggers, conferred, and at last the woman spoke up, the same husky voice that had called Stroud a traitor a moment ago. “Very well,” she said, much to Bridget’s surprise. “We will fall back. We want no part of this—the ritual was not our idea.”

“Thank the Maker,” Blackwall said softly behind Bridget, and she nodded her agreement.

The Wardens put down their arms and filed past, although several of them gave Stroud dirty looks in the process. The fear bred in them by Corypheus would not be banished so easily, it seemed.

The woman with the daggers stopped in front of Bridget. “Deal with Clarel as you must, but … be kind. She thought she was doing her best for us.”

When they were gone, Stroud breathed a sigh of relief. “I had hoped some of my brothers and sisters could be prevailed on to listen to reason. Thank you, Inquisitor.”

“I didn’t want to have to kill them if I could avoid it,” she told him. “Now, let’s go find Clarel.”

“Right behind you,” Stroud said with a brief bow.

If only someone went in front of her, she thought with a sigh. But she was the Inquisitor, and that was what she did. And Blackwall and the Iron Bull’s blades were at her service should anything threaten her.

They made their way through the keep, moving ever closer to the central courtyard. Bridget could feel the rift there in the increasing itching and burning of the Anchor in her palm. She clenched and unclenched her fist, as though that would help. Looking up, she caught Blackwall watching her, and gave him a smile, although he didn’t seem any more reassured by it than she was.

In the central courtyard, a woman was pacing back and forth on a high wall above the heads of the assembled Wardens. In a heavily Orlesian-accented voice, she was saying, “We are betrayed by the very world we have sworn to protect! We must do whatever we can to stand firm against them!”

Erimond came forward, scowling at her. “Clarel, the Inquisition is inside. We have no time for ceremony!”

Clarel snapped at him, “These men and women are giving their lives, Magister. That might mean little in Tevinter, but for the Wardens, it is a sacred duty.”

“Good,” Stroud said softly. “She has not entirely lost her head.” Raising his voice, he shouted, “No one need give their lives, Clarel! The Calling you feel is false!”

Erimond’s head snapped around and he swore viciously. Pushing Clarel out of the way, he grasped the arm of a girl behind her and pulled her forward, a thin elf Warden who looked terrified but met Erimond’s gaze without shrinking.

“I came to save lives. If I have to lose mine to do so, so be it.”

Bridget started to dash forward, raising her staff, but it was too late. The knife in Erimond’s hand flashed and the girl crumpled at his feet in a cloud of red blood that swirled around her body.

“Fucking blood magic,” growled the Iron Bull.

“It is always blood magic,” came a voice from the other side of Bridget, and she glanced over to see that Hawke and Fenris and Varric had joined them.

“Varric, go back and check on the Wardens we met earlier. They had laid down their arms; I want to see them safe.”

He started to argue, then thought better of it, nodded, and hurried off.

The rift was rippling as the elf’s blood flowed into it. The assembled Wardens stood and stared at it, fascinated. Only a few mages had demons by their sides, Bridget was relieved to see.

“Please, you must stop this!” Bridget cried. “Erimond works for Corypheus. He is manipulating you. Clarel, stop this!”

“We are fighting the Blight, Inquisitor. Keeping the world safe from darkspawn. As Wardens do. You are interrupting our work.” Erimond smiled at her unpleasantly. “Hate the ritual for its use of blood sacrifice if you must, but do not hate the Wardens for doing their duty.” The patent insincerity in his voice said he knew perfectly well he already had the Wardens under control. He was enjoying spouting these lines, pretending to be on the Wardens’ side.

“Yes.” Clarel moved to his side. “Our warriors die proudly for a world that will never thank them.”

“And then your Tevinter ally binds the mages to Corypheus!” Stroud shouted. “Surely you must see what is happening here!”

“Corypheus is dead,” Clarel responded.

“No, he isn’t! He attacked the Inquisition camp at Haven—I saw him myself.”

“How would she know Corypheus if she saw him?” Erimond scoffed, glaring at Bridget. “Ignore her. These people will say anything to shake your confidence.”

Clarel rubbed a hand over her face, confused. Then she opened her eyes, her face set. “Bring it through.”

“No!” Bridget threw herself at the rift, trying to close it with the Anchor, but it was too late. Again. Too late, too late, the words repeated themselves with every beat of her heart as the rift stretched even further.

Behind her, Hawke cried out, “Please, all of you, listen to me! I have seen more than my share of blood magic. It is never worth the cost!”

Stroud added his voice, as well. “I trained half of you myself. Do not force me to kill you to stop this madness!”

The Wardens had ranged themselves between Bridget’s team and the rift. She raised her staff, but half-heartedly. She didn’t want to fight them if she didn’t have to. “Blackwall? Can you—can you say something to them, talk some sense into them?”

He hesitated, and she wondered if he thought the Wardens were already lost. How heart-breaking that would be for him. Then he stepped past her, raising his voice. “You don’t know me, but you may have heard the name of Blackwall. Like you, I’ve given my life to the Grey Wardens. The first time I put on this armor, I felt like I belonged, like I was part of something honorable, something with a purpose, for the first time in my life. I know how good that feels; how safe. But fighting and dying here today won’t stop the Blight! If you want to stop the Blight …” He pointed up at Erimond, who took a startled step back. “Kill that bastard up there. His master is the living embodiment of the Blight’s corruption.”

The Wardens turned their heads, following Blackwall’s pointing finger up to where Erimond stood, half trying to hide himself behind Clarel. Slowly, the Warden Commander turned to face the Magister. 

Erimond shrank back. “Clarel, don’t fall victim to your doubts now. We have come so far. You are the only one strong enough to do this!”

She looked at him for a long time, while the rift snapped and stretched and Bridget’s hand burned with its nearness. “Perhaps,” Clarel said at last, in a voice that seemed to be awakening, “we could test the truth of these charges before there must be any further bloodshed.”

“Or perhaps I should bring in a more reliable ally.” Erimond stretched his staff up toward the skies, calling out words Bridget couldn’t quite catch.

Almost immediately, he was answered by a shriek Bridget still heard in her nightmares, and Corypheus’s dragon wheeled above them.

Erimond’s voice rose above the dragon’s cries. “My master thought you might interfere, Inquisitor. He sent me this to welcome you!”

Corrupted fire belched from the dragon’s mouth, spraying the courtyard as everyone dove for cover. While they were distracted, Clarel struck Erimond from behind. He staggered, falling forward, and then Clarel attacked the dragon, her magic crackling in the air between them. The dragon retaliated, swooping down toward Clarel’s position. Erimond took one look at it and ran, his steps taking him up into the central tower of the keep. 

Over her shoulder, Clarel gave one last command to her Wardens, “Help the Inquisitor!”, before she followed Erimond, and Bridget, on her feet again at last and seeing the dragon flying up in the same direction, followed Clarel. She didn’t even have to look behind her to know that her people were with her.

The tower seemed to consist of nothing but stairs, and Bridget was winded all too soon. Hawke and Fenris both passed her, and Cole, and she tried to make her legs go faster. She was in better condition than she’d ever been before, but it still wasn’t quite enough to catch Clarel, much less Erimond.

When she finally found them, Erimond was stranded at the end of a half-ruined wall, Clarel facing him, and the dragon swirling above their heads. At last, unable to continue running, Erimond was standing and fighting, Clarel meeting him strike after strike.

“You have destroyed the Grey Wardens,” she bit out between clenched teeth.

“You did that to yourself,” he spat back. “All I did was dangle a little power before your eyes, and you couldn’t wait to get your hands bloody.”

Clarel had gone past him now, her strikes pushing him back and back, closer to where Bridget and the others stood. Bridget held her people back—Clarel deserved to finish this.

But she had reckoned without the dragon, which landed heavily on the stone wall behind Clarel and plucked the Warden Commander up in its mighty jaws, tossing her across the stones like a rag doll. 

Clarel landed hard, and the dragon pulled itself across the stones toward her, stalking her. Bridget and the others had run toward her, and now found that the dragon was between them and the main keep. Bridget held up a hand, warning the others not to strike—the dragon could push them all right off the wall, in its current position.

Clarel was dragging herself along the stones. “In war, victory,” she said weakly.

“In peace, vigilance,” Blackwall said.

And then Stroud finished the litany, as Clarel rolled over and struck her magic straight into the dragon’s mouth. “In death, sacrifice.”

The dragon rolled over, screaming, the rock wall splintering underneath it. Bridget felt the rocks she stood on coming apart under her feet, and she cried out in fear. Above the other sounds, she heard Hawke calling for Fenris, and, dimly, Blackwall’s voice calling her own name. But there wass nothing she could do for any of them. All she could do is tumble through the sky.

The Anchor was spitting and burning in her hand, and she put it out in front of her, opening her hand instinctively as though she was attempting to close a rift. Instead, one opened beneath her and she fell through it into blackness.


	25. Through This Demon

Blackwall landed hard on something unyielding, his head smashing into it in the process, the breath being driven from his body. Frankly, given how far there had been to fall from the keep’s crumbling wall, he was a little surprised he had a body left to contain breath, or consciousness, for that matter.

Whatever was beneath him was solid enough to push up on, and his body seemed to not only be in one piece, but also uninjured, which was odd enough that for a moment he wondered if he had died and this was the Fade.

Opening his eyes didn’t dispel the idea. The air was … green, and there were dull rock formations all around him, with strange ruins and random pools of water. Yes, if this was the Fade, it was just the punishment he deserved.

As he heard sounds all around him, indicating he wasn’t the only one here, he wondered, though. Surely Hawke didn’t deserve to be tormented in the Fade; or Stroud; or Cole. Cole was a spirit already—why did he still have form in the Fade?

Blackwall frowned, his head hurting.

“Where are we?” Stroud asked, as they all came together in a little knot.

“Never mind where,” Hawke snapped. “Fenris! Fenris?”

“Over here.” It was Bridget’s voice, and that put paid to any idea Blackwall had of this being death. If anyone was going straight to the Maker’s side when she died, it was Bridget Trevelyan. So why was he so pleased to see her here in the Void with the rest of them?

She was helping Fenris along; he appeared to have injured his leg. He looked less than pleased at being touched by a mage.

Bridget delivered the elf to his lover. “I offered to heal that, but he refused.”

“He does that,” Hawke said, clinging to the elf fondly. “Now, let the lady heal you, or you’ll have me to deal with, you beautiful stubborn bastard.”

Fenris looked up at Bridget and shrugged eloquently, making it clear that he would do willingly for Hawke what he would never consent to for himself.

Bridget knelt and sent a cool wash of healing through the leg, to Fenris’s evident discomfort, but she didn’t touch him.

“We were falling,” he observed. “And then we were not.”

“Well, if this is the afterlife, I think the Chantry owes me an apology. This looks nothing like the Maker’s bosom,” Hawke said.

Cole was shivering. “No. No no no no. This is the Fade, but … I’m stuck. I can’t … Why can’t I?” He held his fingers up in front of his face, waving his hands as though he thought they might disappear.

“Crap.” The Iron Bull came from behind a rock formation. 

“This place is wrong,” Cole told them all earnestly. “I mean, I made myself forget when I made myself real, but … I know it wasn’t like this.”

Hawke frowned, looking around him. “It isn’t how I remember the Fade, either.”

“You’ve been to the Fade?” asked Stroud in astonishment.

“Do not remind me,” growled Fenris.

“It was a ritual. Dalish,” Hawke explained.

“I believe …” Bridget looked around, frowning. “I believe we are here physically—we’re not just dreaming. That would explain the strangeness.” She lifted her hand, staring at the Anchor. “I … opened a rift, and we fell through it.”

“Thanks for saving my life, boss, really, but did you really have to drag me through the ass end of demon town to do it?” the Iron Bull snarled. He had his arms crossed over his chest, and was looking around with what Blackwall could only describe as fear. The Iron Bull, afraid of the Fade? Of all things. Blackwall hoped his beard hid the smile he couldn’t quite wipe off his face.

Hawke looked curiously at Bridget. “I’ve heard you walked out of the Fade at Haven. Was it like this?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I can’t remember what happened the last time I did this. If I did at all, which I’m still not sure I believe.” She reached out a hand for Blackwall, who took it in his, feeling better for the contact.

“Whatever happened at Haven, we cannot assume we are safe now,” Fenris pointed out. “Who knows what lurks here?”

“That huge demon Erimond wanted to bind to Clarel was on the other side of that rift in the center, and there are probably more,” the Iron Bull agreed. “Oh, this is shitty.”

“Trouble with demons, big guy?” Hawke asked.

The Iron Bull bristled. “I’ll fight whatever you give me.”

“Then you should love it here.”

Blackwall wondered how much more the Iron Bull was going to take before he decked Hawke. Fenris apparently wondered that, too, because he caught his lover’s eye and shook his head.

Stroud had been studying the sky. “If the rift the demons came through was nearby, in the center of the keep, can we escape the same way?” 

Bridget followed the line of his gaze to a swirling green rift in the sky, much like the Breach. “Let’s find out. What better have we got to do with our time?”

“Now you’re talking.” Hawke slung an arm over her shoulder. “Every day a new adventure.”

She smiled. “That’s not exactly how I would put it.”

“You have to,” he told her, serious for once, “or all this will drive you batty. Or you find someone strong who can help you stand up to it.”

Blackwall filled with pride when she looked back at him.

“That one sounds better,” she said.

“Let’s go, then,” Cole said, looking around him uneasily, and he took off in the direction of the thing that looked like the Breach, the Iron Bull close on his heels. Blackwall walked next to the Qunari, figuring they two could handle anything that jumped out at them. Ahead of them, Cole walked with his arms crossed over his chest, his hands tucked into his armpits, muttering. “Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. Wringing me out. Wrought right and rigid. Can’t relax. Can’t release.”

“Calm down, kid. You’ll send yourself barking mad if you don’t watch out,” the Iron Bull said, not unkindly, adding under his breath, “if you’re not mad already, that is.”

From behind them, Bridget called, “Stay with us, Cole. It’s all right. We’ll get you out of here soon, I promise.”

“Thank you,” Cole said. He straightened up a little, not so hunched over now. “It’s not right, this. It should be like home, but it’s not. This isn’t me, not this part.”

“There are different parts?” Fenris asked.

“Oh, yes. This is a scary part.”

“You can say that again,” Hawke muttered.

“What happened to every day an adventure?” Bridget asked him.

“Yeah, I talk a good game.”

“But really you’re terrified? Thank the Maker. I thought it was just me,” she said.

“Whoa.” Next to Blackwall, the Iron Bull stopped short. “Hey, boss? Something you ought to see here,” he called. He put a hand on Cole’s shoulder to stop the spirit in his tracks.

Bridget and Stroud caught up to them at the same time, seeing the same figure the Iron Bull had seen. Stroud shook his head, as if to clear it. “By the Maker, could that be—?”

“Divine Justinia,” Bridget whispered.

They all stood and looked at the spirit of the Divine, who looked back at them calmly, as though they had met in Val Royeaux instead of the Fade.

Bridget frowned. “From the little I remember of what happened at Haven, I thought you were dead.”

“I fear the Divine is dead,” Stroud said. “It is more likely that we face a spirit … or a demon.”

“Yet here you stand in the Fade yourselves,” the Divine pointed out gently.

“Jury’s still out on whether we’re dead,” growled the Iron Bull. “Ma’am.”

The Divine cast him a gentle smile, and continued, “In truth, proving or disproving my existence would require time we do not have.”

“Really?” Hawke asked. “Seems like a simple question to me. I’m human, and you are—?”

Disregarding Hawke, the Divine moved toward Bridget. “I am here to help you. You do not remember what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because the memories you have lost were taken by a demon that serves Corypheus. It is the Nightmare you forget upon waking, feeding on memories of fear and darkness, growing fat on the terror.”

Next to Blackwall, the Iron Bull breathed a string of filthy curses that seemed to make him feel somewhat better. 

“The false Calling that terrified the Wardens into making such grave mistakes?” The Divine shook her head sadly. “Its work.”

Stroud laid his hand on the hilt of his sword. “I would gladly avenge the insult this Nightmare dealt my brethren.”

They weren’t Blackwall’s brethren, not really, although no one knew that, but he echoed Stroud’s sentiments wholeheartedly anyway.

The Divine nodded. “You will have your chance, brave Warden. This place of darkness is its lair.”

“So how do we hurt it?” Bridget asked, her voice harder than Blackwall had ever heard it.

“I said adventure, not blind optimism, Inquisitor,” Hawke said.

“We have to get out of here. If the way leads through this demon, that’s the way we take.” Bridget squared her shoulders.

“Now you’re talking, boss,” the Iron Bull agreed.

“You hurt it by escaping the Fade and leading your people against Corypheus,” the Divine told them all.

“So how do we get out?”

“When you entered the Fade at Haven, the demon took a part of you. In order to escape the Fade, you must recover it, regain the memory you have lost.”

“Oh, is that all?” But Bridget’s shoulders, so square a moment ago, slumped. Blackwall reached out, wanting to give her comfort, but the Iron Bull shook his head. And he was right—she had to fight this on her own, find her own strength. Blackwall let his hand fall again.

The Divine pointed at several demons rapidly closing in. “Your memories, Inquisitor.”

And then she was gone.

All of them were glad to have something tangible to fight, and they threw themselves into the fray with a positive glee. The demons never stood a chance.

Bridget was distracted early on, because when the first demon died, they all heard a voice saying, “Bring forth the sacrifice.”

“That’s Corypheus,” she said, her head snapping up as if she was listening for more. “Kill another one!”

“My fucking pleasure, boss.” The Iron Bull decapitated another of the demons with a single swing of his blade.

The next voice was the Divine’s, frightened but trying to be strong. “Why are you doing this? You of all people?”

It was Stroud’s turn next, running through a demon with his sword, and then drawing the blade back out and hacking it to pieces.

Bridget’s own voice followed. “What’s going on here?” Calm, but curious, and a little alarmed.

When the last demon was down, Bridget fell to her knees, the Anchor flashing in her hand. “I see it now,” she said, gritting her teeth against the pain. "The Divine, held in some kind of … magical prison by … Grey Wardens? Maker, no. Corypheus … ‘Now is the hour of our victory.’ The Divine is asking the Wardens for help, asking them why they’re doing this to her. Corypheus has an orb, like the one he had at Haven. But it’s green.” She looked at her hand in surprise. “He says to keep the sacrifice still, he’s raising the orb … What’s he doing? He’s pulling something from her, some essence … She’s calling for help. Then the door opens … I’m there. Why am I there? I was looking for a privy, and I opened the wrong door. The Divine—she reaches out and strikes the orb while Corypheus is distracted. It rolls across the floor and I pick it up. Maker, the pain. It hurts! Make it stop!” She clenched her fist, feeling the pain all over again in memory. “Corypheus comes after me … he reaches for me …” Bridget put a hand over her eyes, her face contorting with the effort of trying to get the memory back. “No, that’s all there is.”

Stroud frowned down at her. “So your mark did not come from Andraste at all. It came from the orb Corypheus used in his ritual.”

Blackwall knelt next to Bridget. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I think so.” As he helped her to her feet, she looked at Stroud. “I never claimed to be the Herald of Andraste. Other people gave me that name.”

The Divine was standing behind them again. She said, “Corypheus intended to rip open the Veil, use the Anchor to enter the Fade, and throw open the doors of the Black City.”

“Poppycock,” the Iron Bull bellowed, but he looked far from certain.

Ignoring him, the Divine looked steadily at Bridget. “When you disrupted his plan, the orb bestowed the Anchor upon you instead.” 

Bridget shook her head. “What difference does that make? Who cares how I got it or why or what pissed Corypheus off? We know he’s angry at me over the Anchor—this doesn’t help at all! It doesn’t tell me about Corypheus or give me a weakness in the demon to exploit, or even get us a way out of here! All it tells me is that I should break his damned orb the next time it starts glowing!”

“Perhaps that information will be of use to you one day,” the Divine suggested. “You cannot escape the lair of the Nightmare until you regain all that it took from you.” 

“My memories.”

“Yes. You have recovered some of yourself … but now it knows you are here. It will not be so easy from here on out.”

“Oh, good. Because that’s what was really missing here—a bigger challenge.” Hawke threw his hands up in the air, walking away from them all.

“You must make haste!” the Divine said.

The Iron Bull looked around uneasily. “I hear that.” 

And the Divine was gone. Bridget led them off toward the rift again, Hawke and Stroud walking in back with Blackwall between them.

Hawke kept giving the two Wardens—or what he perceived to be two Wardens—angry looks, until at last Stroud said, “Out with it, Hawke. What’s on your mind?”

“I just wondered if either of you might be concerned about the Grey Wardens holding the Divine in that vision.”

“What would you like me to do about it from here?” Stroud asked.

“Well, since their actions led to her death, I thought perhaps you might be upset.”

“I assumed that he had taken their minds, as we have seen him do.” Stroud put his hands on his hips, waiting for Hawke to respond, poised for a fight.

Between them, Blackwall cleared his throat. “This seems like the kind of discussion best reserved for after we escape this dark place.”

They looked at him, then at each other, then resolutely ahead. “Fine.” 

He shook his head at both of them and quickened his pace to catch up with Bridget and Cole. They walked along in silence, Bridget lost in her own thoughts and Cole still suffering from the wrongness of this portion of the Fade. At last, Blackwall’s curiosity got the better of him. “Do you think that was truly the Divine?”

Bridget looked startled, drawn from her reverie. “We’ve survived in here this far. Perhaps she did as well.”

“She wants to help. Our path is sharp and she wants to show us the soft places,” Cole said.

“Yeah, that’s great, but what’s she doing with that Nightmare thing waiting up there and scaring the shit out of me?” the Iron Bull asked. 

Cole said earnestly, “I’m not like that, The Iron Bull. I make people forget in order to help them; it eats their fears.” He shivered. “I don’t know if I could do that, but I don’t want to try. That’s not me.”

“That’s … something.” 

Everything around them looked the same; if it wasn’t for the rift in the sky, Blackwall would have had no idea if they were going in circles or not—and his years in the wilderness had left him with a fairly good directional sense. It was almost routine, after a while. No one spoke. They all just continued to put one foot in front of the other.

But then a voice spoke in the sky. A cultured voice, smooth and sure of itself. “Ah,” it said, “we have a visitor. Some silly little girl come to steal the fear I kindly lifted from her shoulders.”

Blackwall’s heart hurt for Bridget. The Nightmare had known just where to strike at her—he knew that despite the brave face she put on so well she still thought of herself as incompetent, too inexperienced for the role she had been given.

“You should have thanked me, Inquisitor, and left your fear where it lay, forgotten.” The contempt the voice put into the single word “Inquisitor” made Blackwall’s fist clench. It went on: “You think that pain will make you stronger? What fool filled your mind with such drivel? The only one who grows stronger from your fears is me. But you are a guest in my home, so by all means, let me return what you have forgotten.”

Suddenly darkspawn were swarming from the walls, dripping with taint, or so it seemed to Blackwall. He drew his sword with a shout. Around him, the others were doing the same, although they were looking in directions that didn’t make sense to him—some down around their feet, others up at the sky.

Bridget was backing away from something, tears in her eyes. She seemed almost reluctant as she drew her staff.

But Blackwall couldn’t pay attention to her any longer. The darkspawn were closing in on him, and he hacked and slashed while trying to keep his mouth closed and his nose clear of their taint.

At last they were gone, the bodies disappearing as they fell. The Iron Bull sheathed his sword, looking about him in satisfaction. “Guess this Nightmare wasn’t such hot shit after all.”

“These foes were likely but servants of the true demon,” Stroud told him.

“Yeah, I know, all right. Can’t you let me have one moment to hope?” the Qunari snarled.

Stroud shrugged. “I see little value in refusing to face reality.”

“I’ve seen plenty of reality, you smarmy little—“ The Iron Bull had his fist clenched and ready to swing, but Bridget clung to his arm.

“Nightmare wants us fighting amongst ourselves. Don’t let him get in your head, Bull.”

For a moment, it seemed the Qunari was about to strike her, and then Blackwall would have had to step in, but then the massive fist relaxed. “Right, boss. Of course. Stupid of me. Sorry,” he muttered at Stroud, who inclined his head in acceptance of the apology.

They kept going, the voice sounding again, as though it were in front of them and above them and behind them, using sarcasm like a sword. “Perhaps I should be afraid, facing the most powerful members of the Inquisition. Like Blackwall.”

And Blackwall did feel fear, largely that Nightmare would tell them all, right here, right now. He could almost see Bridget’s hurt and angry face.

“Ah, there’s nothing like a Grey Warden, is there?” the voice said. “And you are _nothing_ like a Grey Warden.”

Stroud was looking at him oddly. Stroud must know. Up to now, he hadn’t cared, it appeared, but with Nightmare bringing his attention to it … Blackwall ducked his head, muttering, “I’ll show you a Warden’s strength.”

Bridget squeezed his arm. “Don’t let him get to you. You don’t have to be at Weisshaupt to be a Warden.”

She thought Nightmare meant he didn’t feel like a real Warden because he was detached. Blackwall felt a flood of relief … and then a stab of guilt. He should tell her. Not now, but soon. He must.

Nightmare was done with him now, moving on to the Iron Bull. “Hissrad, you would make a lovely host for one of my minions. Or maybe I will ride your body myself.” 

The Qunari’s throat worked with revulsion. “I’d like to see you try.”

Cole was still huddled into himself, and hadn’t said anything strange—or at all—in quite some time. Nightmare spoke to him next. “Are you afraid? I can help you forget. Just like you help other people. We’re so very alike, you and I.”

The spirit looked up at the sky, his face a picture of misery. “No.”

The voice laughed. It wasn’t done with them yet. “Did you think you mattered, Hawke? Did you think anything you ever did mattered? You couldn’t even save your mother. How could you expect to strike down a god?”

“You leave her out of this!” Hawke shouted.

Fenris laid a hand on his arm. “Don’t let it get to you.”

“Easy for you to say. Nothing ever gets to you.” Hawke yanked his hand away, glaring at his lover venomously.

“Fenris is going to die, Hawke, just like your family, and like everyone you ever cared about.”

That Hawke devoutly believed that was evident in the stricken look he gave the elf.

“Leave him alone!” Fenris shouted.

“Like he will leave you alone? Abandon you when he gets bored with your exotic tattoos?”

“That will never happen.” There was absolute confidence in the elf’s tone.

“No. It won’t,” Hawke assured him, and the two men clung to each other.

“Can we keep going, please?” Stroud snapped at them. 

“Warden Stroud,” the Nightmare intoned, as if it had just noticed he was there. “How must it feel to devote your whole life to the Wardens, only to watch them fall? Or, worse, to know that you were responsible for their destruction? When the next Blight comes, will they curse your name?”

“With the Maker’s blessing, we will end this wretched beast,” Stroud swore.

The darkspawn were back again, the others hacking and slashing about their feet or in the air. 

“These are small fears, too small to shape the Fade themselves,” Stroud shouted, stabbing at something next to his foot. “Clinging to the Nightmare, feeding on the bits it leaves behind.”

“And of course it has to be spiders,” Hawke groaned.

Spiders? Blackwall turned to stare at him. So did the Iron Bull. Then the Qunari groaned, realization striking him. “We all see our own worst fears. Man, I _wish_ I could see some spiders. That would be a massive improvement on what I saw.”

“Me, too,” Blackwall agreed.

Bridget nodded fervently, and Blackwall put his arm around her, pulling her close against him. 

“They want your fear, so they look how you feel,” Cole said. He was still shivering, looking paler and paler the longer they spent in the Fade. Ironic, that, Blackwall thought.

“Well, now I feel better,” the Iron Bull said sarcastically, but he patted Cole on the back reasonably gently for all that, and it seemed to make Cole feel better.

Around a corner, they found the Divine waiting for them again. Blackwall frowned, not certain he was ready for more of her bad news. But Bridget approached her fearlessly. “What is it?”

“The Nightmare is closer now; it knows you seek escape. With each moment, it grows stronger. We cannot tarry long.”

“Tell me what really happened at the Temple,” Bridget begged. “You must know.”

“As must you. Only regaining your lost memories will aid you now.”

“Or you could just tell me.”

“Would you trust my words?” the Divine asked. “Trust what you have seen.”

“I see you, but I don’t know if I can trust you. Who—what are you?”

“I have told you that I am helping you.”

“Yes, but are you really her, or some kind of Fade-remnant of her, or a spirit imitating her?” Bridget asked impatiently.

“Our world is never that simple. What if the answer is none of those things? Or all of them?” The Divine sighed. “I am what the Maker made me. The question is: Are you what the Maker made you?”

Blackwall was getting a bit tired of this crypticness, but Bridget seemed to follow it. “If I was chosen, I don’t understand why. Why me? Why this?”

“You are not the first to ask such questions. Did Andraste not question when the Maker charged her with an impossible task? Did she not feel unworthy? Her questions did not lessen her heroism.” 

“No,” Bridget snapped. “No. Not this again. Stop comparing me to Andraste! I don’t want to be Andraste! I don’t even want to be a hero.”

“No true hero ever does,” Fenris said softly, his eyes on Hawke.

“The choice is yours, of course,” the Divine said, but there was disappointment in her tone, as if Bridget had failed some test.

“You still haven’t answered my question. What are you?”

“I am what you see. All other answers rest in you.”

Stroud growled in irritation. “Stop wasting time talking to this thing! We must get to the rift.”

More demons clustered around them, like the ones they had first fought, and like those, when Fenris cleaved one in two with a single stroke of his blade, a scream resounded above their head that was not made by any of them, but rather appeared to be part of Bridget’s memory.

Cole’s daggers made short work of another demon, and they all heard the Divine’s voice, saying, “Go,” in a firm, calm tone.

Blackwall and Hawke took down a third demon, which melted into the ground while above their head Bridget’s panicked voice sounded. “Keep running.”

Bridget put a hand to her head, covering her eyes. “Spiders. Those nightmare things. They’re chasing me, and I’m climbing … It’s the Breach, back in Haven. This is how I escaped. The Divine is waiting for me. Why doesn’t she go through? The spiders are almost on top of me, and I’m so tired. I’ve never climbed like this before. She reaches for me, her hand is so strong for such an old woman. And we run for the Breach, or … I do. I tell her to keep running, but she … falls behind. The demons have her! She tells me to go. Oh, Maker.” She was sobbing now, both hands over her face. “The Divine gave her life for me. And I ran. I let her. Oh, Maker, I am so sorry.”

Blackwall held her, feeling her body shake as she wept. “She knew you had a destiny. She knew about the mark on your hand, that you would be needed. She saved us all.”

The Divine’s spirit form was there again, now, smiling gently at Bridget. “He is right.”

“So this creature is simply a spirit, as I have been saying all along. Let us go!” Stroud said.

“I am sorry if I disappoint you,” she said to him. And then she no longer looked like the Divine, but was a creature of light, burning brightly before them. Warm light, like a candle. 

Bridget looked up as the spirit rose into the air, shielding her eyes from the light. “The Nightmare watched Corypheus and grew powerful with the fear. Did you watch the Divine and become inspired by her faith?”

“If that is the way you wish the story to be, it is not a bad one.”

“So we know now that the Divine perished at the Temple, thanks to the Grey Wardens,” Hawke said, his voice hard.

Stroud whirled on him. “As I said, the Grey Wardens responsible for that crime were under the control of Corypheus.”

“You can’t know that!”

“Neither can you,” Bridget said. “And we can discuss this further, if you must, when we are out of the Fade.”

“Assuming the Grey Wardens and their demon army didn’t destroy the Inquisition while we were gone.” Hawke caught himself, paling as he realized what he had said. “I’m sorry,” he said to Bridget. “Sometimes my mouth … gets away from me.”

“Try to keep a better hold on it until we get out of the Fade. Who knows what trouble we still have before us.”

“How dare you judge us? You killed almost every mage in Kirkwall!” Stroud bellowed, trying to get around Bridget to attack Hawke. The Iron Bull grasped the back of his armor and held him there, appearing to exert little to no effort in the process.

“Because too many of them were practicing blood magic, just like your precious Wardens,” Fenris spat.

Blackwall felt himself bristling, and tried not to. There was no time for this.

“Stop,” Cole said desperately. “Stop! We—we have to go. We can’t stay here.”

Bridget looked at Hawke and Stroud in irritation. “Sweet Maker, could both of you please shut up? Does this look like the time for this? We have to get out of here!”

They both looked at her, contrite, muttering apologies, as did Fenris.

Above their heads, the Nightmare spoke. “Do you think you can fight me? I am your every fear come to life! I am the veiled hand of Corypheus himself! The demon army you fear? I command them. They are bound all through me.”

“So we kill this big loudmouth, we cut the cords that bind the demons? Good to know,” the Iron Bull said. 

Nightmare roared in anger, and sent more if its minions after them. The spirit shouted above the din, “You must get through the rift, Inquisitor! Get through it and slam the door closed with all your strength. That will banish the army of demons … and exile this cursed creature to the farthest reaches of the Fade.”

“By all means, let’s do that!” Hawke called out.

And then it was there, in front of them: the rift, and Nightmare, who looked very much like a demon version of Corypheus … and behind Nightmare, the biggest demon Blackwall had ever seen. It looked like a spider, dripping venom from multiple fangs, and it crouched there between them and the rift.

The spirit floated above them. She—it—turned in the air to look down at Bridget. “If you would, please tell Leliana, ‘I am sorry. I failed you, too.’”

And then it was gone, flying into the face of the massive spider demon, driving it back and back and back until the rift was clear. The spirit with the Divine’s face had sacrificed herself for them. Blackwall was grimly determined that would not be in vain. Next to him, so were the Iron Bull and Fenris, and the three of them attacked Nightmare vehemently.

It wasn’t easy. But between them, they three, with Bridget and Cole and Hawke and Stroud, had fought many a demon, and they had the power of desperation on their side. None of them wanted anything in the world as much as they wanted to kill this thing and get out of the Fade.

At last Nightmare was dead, nothing but a pile of tentacles and shreds of clothing on the ground. “Take Cole and get out of here,” Bridget told the Iron Bull, and for once the Qunari didn’t argue.

The rift wasn’t very wide, and all the Iron Bull’s battering at it as he squeezed through didn’t make it any bigger.

“Fenris, go,” Hawke said. He was looking at something beyond the rift. Blackwall followed the line of his gaze and saw the spider. It was coming back, and it would be here before they all had time to get through. Fenris must have recognized that, too, because with a last clutch at Hawke’s arm, he hurried into the rift.

“Blackwall,” Bridget said. She could see in his face that he didn’t want to go, but she looked at him with those blue eyes and said, “Please, Thom,” and he went.

No one was ever to know what happened on the wrong side of that rift, but eventually Hawke pushed his way out, to Fenris’s vast relief, and behind him came Bridget, rolling along the ground and coming up on her feet. Without hesitation, she aimed the Anchor at the rift, and she made sure it closed. When it was gone, the demons had all gone with it, the echo of their shrieks the only thing left of them in the courtyard. The spirit had been right. Without Nightmare to control them, the Warden mages were free again, and Corypheus had lost his demon army for good.

The remaining Wardens put down their weapons before her.

An Inquisition scout came running up to her. “Inquisitor! What a relief to see you safe.”

“It’s a relief to be safe,” she told him. “The Archdemon?”

“Gone. As soon as you disappeared.”

“And the army?”

“In good shape … comparatively. The Commander has the Venatori magister under lock and key; he thought you might wish to deal with him yourself.”

“Tell the Commander he thought right, and he has my thanks.”

Blackwall listened to the strength in her voice, the sureness, with pride. The woman he had met in the Hinterlands couldn’t have spoken like this at the end of a hard-fought battle. She was truly the Inquisitor now, sure of herself and her own power, and he was as proud of her as he could be.

“And the Wardens?” Bridget asked the Scout.

“Those who weren’t corrupted fought next to us against the demons.”

A Warden in full armor came up next to the scout. “If I may, Inquisitor.” He crossed his arm over his chest and bowed to her. “We stand ready to help make up for our … tragic mistakes.” He frowned past her. “But where is Warden Stroud?”

“Lost,” she said. “He remained behind in the Fade to protect us all. For the Wardens, he said. He was true to his brothers and sisters to the last.”

The armored Warden looked ashamed, no doubt remembering how they had treated Stroud. At last he collected himself. “Inquisitor … we have no one left of any significant rank. What do we do now?”

Bridget glanced at Blackwall, who shook his head firmly. Even if he were a real Warden, his allegiance right now was to her, and to the Inquisition. He was not taking on the remnants of the Grey; he didn’t even deserve the task, although he couldn’t tell her that.

She must have understood what he meant, because she turned back to the Warden. “Then stay with the Inquisition and do what you can to help. We need every hand, every piece of expertise, we can get. And as Corypheus was kept for so long by the Wardens, the Wardens should have a hand in his defeat. Stroud died for the ideals of the Wardens. ‘In war, victory.’ And we are still at war.”

“Oh, you’re not going to make friends with this one, boss,” the Iron Bull said, shaking his head.

“I’m not going to throw away a resource just to make friends, Bull.”

“Well. All right, then.” His eye rested on her admiringly, and with a renewed interest that made Blackwall uncomfortable. There was far more to the Iron Bull than met the eye, and it was always hard to tell what went on in his mind behind that carefully schooled face.

Bridget looked at the armored Warden, and then past him to his fellows. “Do you believe the Wardens can still help?”

“I do, Your Worship.”

“Good. You may still be vulnerable to Corypheus, or to his Venatori, but there are plenty of demons that need killing.” 

“Thank you, Your Worship. We will not fail you.” The Warden returned to the rest of his ranks, getting them ready to return with the Inquisition. 

“Hawke, what will you do? There’s a place for you and Fenris with the Inquisition.”

He shook his head. “I’ve had enough, Bridget. The Nightmare wasn’t wrong—Kirkwall took everyone I cared about, except for one, and I never accomplished anything. I think you’re doing a fine job, and I don’t want to get in your way, or worse, louse things up for you. If you need me, Varric will know where to find me.”

“If you’re sure?”

“He is absolutely certain,” Fenris cut in. He was looking at Hawke with the first smile Blackwall had ever seen on his face.

“Take care of Varric for me,” Hawke said.

“I will.”

And then they were gone, and she was left standing there in the middle of the courtyard. She turned to Blackwall and held out her hand. “Let’s go home.”


	26. The Demands of the Moment

It was a relief to be back at Skyhold once again. All that time in the Western Approach, the siege of Adamant, and the interlude in the Fade had made Bridget feel disconnected from the work, from the Inquisition, and she didn’t like the feeling. She was glad to be back within the familiar stone walls, glad to be facing the pile of correspondence on her desk and the myriad calls on the Inquisitor’s time. 

Cullen had volunteered to help the Grey Wardens get settled. She had asked Blackwall originally, but he had shown a curious reluctance to take on the task, and she wondered what it was, whether he was upset by the loss of Stroud or by the whole mess with the sacrifices and the binding rituals, but thus far he had proven impossible to pin down on the topic. She figured he would open up eventually.

She had a long list of people to check in with now that she was back, but before she could start on it, Dorian buttonholed her soon after breakfast. “My dear Bridget, I’m told you were physically in the Fade. You must tell me all about it.”

“It was dreary, and tiring, and very, very rocky and drab and grey. Not like the dream Fade at all.”

His bright, expectant face fell. “What a dreadful dash to the expectations.”

“Yes. Not to mention the demons trying to kill us.”

“Isn’t that pretty much a Tuesday around here?”

Bridget smiled. “More or less. How is your research going?” Dorian had claimed an alcove in the library, and he spent his days there surrounded by piles of books.

“You have a criminally small number of books on early Tevinter history. And what you have tends in the direction of trite propaganda.”

“Why don’t you speak to the librarian and get him to order something better?”

“I did. He looked at me as though I wanted him to order books on how to properly trim one’s toenails.”

“Oh. All right, I’ll speak to him.”

“Would you?” Dorian looked closely at her. “I’m sorry, I’m a dreadful dolt. What I meant to say is: You went physically into the Fade—are you all right?”

Bridget shook her head. “I mean, I am, more or less, but … it was like walking in a nightmare, but everything was real.”

“I think I can imagine. Under normal circumstances, the Fade can be an ordeal. To be the only real thing there …” He let the words trail off, and squeezed her arm. “I’m glad you weren’t alone.”

“As was I.”

“You do realize this feat hasn’t been performed in over a thousand years, don’t you?”

“It can be another thousand before it happens again, as far as I’m concerned.”

“But will it?” His grey eyes, normally so dancing and mischievous, were deadly serious as he looked at her. “If you can walk in the Fade, others will believe they can, as well. Who knows what secrets lie out there, winking at those who walk by until they are picked up? Not everyone who tries will be as lucky as you were, and the things they could unleash … well, the possibilities are infinite.”

“I know.”

He sighed heavily. “There are too many idiots in the world who think that if they just use enough blood magic, their problems will vanish.”

“You speak as if from experience.”

For a moment, it appeared as though he was going to confide something in her, but he thought better of it. “I saw too much in Tevinter. I despise much of it—the lies, the scheming, the illusions of supremacy. Tevinter in a nutshell.”

“So you don’t care for it, then?”

“On the contrary, I care for my homeland a great deal. There’s so much potential … and so much of it wasted. We refuse to acknowledge how far we’ve fallen because pretending is easier.”

“What kind of pretending?” Bridget asked.

“Oh, we pretend the Qunari can be beaten, we pretend that we are superior to everyone … et cetera.”

“But you don’t.”

“No. And there are others who feel as I do. Sadly, we are in the minority. But for all our faults, my people have virtues, too. Tevinter is where Thedas truly began, remember, and much of that history and culture still remains. We treasure our past and preserve it as best we can. You can walk down a side street and find nothing built during the modern ages.” He shook his head. “If I truly believed my homeland was beyond hope, I wouldn’t miss it so much.”

“And your family? Do you miss them, too?”

He smiled bitterly. “Ah, yes.” Holding his arms out, he turned slowly around. “Do you like what you see? The scion of House Pavus? I am the product of generations of careful breeding.” At her frown of confusion, he explained, “You see, the great houses of Tevinter carefully choose each pairing to refine traits, weeding out the undesirable and promoting the rest. Particularly magical affinity. My mother was chosen for my father because magic runs strongly in her blood. Never mind that they have loathe each other. They came together in a common cause—to raise a son who could become Archon, who could make House Pavus the envy of the Imperium. And they got me, a cautionary tale that you should be careful what you wish for.”

“I can’t imagine any parents not being thrilled to have someone as charming and intelligent as you are for a son.”

His eyes softened. “Thank you.” 

They had reached his library alcove, and Bridget left him there among his books. She sought out Achis, the librarian, and let him know in no uncertain terms that Master Pavus was to have everything he asked for, no matter how odd it might seem.

Achis seemed uncomfortable with that, but he couldn’t say no to the Inquisitor. He did inform her that the library was missing forty-eight copies of _Hard in Hightown_ , and Bridget promised to keep her eyes open for them, although she questioned why they needed so many copies. Especially since so many people had their own already. Varric must have charmed someone into buying them all, she suspected. Which reminded her that she needed to talk to him about _Swords & Shields_ … but not before she spoke to Leliana. The spymaster must already have heard about the spirit with Justinia’s face, but Bridget wanted to speak to her about it directly.

It was plain Leliana knew what she had come to talk about. Her blue eyes shuttered themselves, growing hard and closed off, as soon as Bridget’s feet hit the floor of the rookery. “Inquisitor.”

“Aren’t we past that by now?”

Ignoring the remark, Leliana tapped a curling sheet of parchment on her desk. “Hawke and Fenris are gone. Where they will not tell me. No doubt Fenris fears Hawke being drawn into another situation like Kirkwall that he cannot escape.”

“Hawke barely escaped the Fade.” Bridget swallowed and looked hastily away, trying to push back memories of those last few moments. 

Leliana nodded. “The Grey Wardens have agreed to take up residence in the Approach, fighting demons and Red Templars … and steering clear of the Venatori.” She looked Bridget full in the face for the first time. “You’ve dealt Corypheus a significant blow.”

“Not just me. The others, too. And Stroud. And … the Divine.”

“Yes.” Leliana frowned, indicating her unwillingness to pursue the topic. Instead she said, “We must consider what comes next. You took an army from Corypheus, but that will matter little if Orlais falls into chaos. Arrangements have been made to attend the ball at Halamshiral.”

“The ball?” Bridget echoed. Then she remembered that she had promised to go to the Empress’s ball. Her, at the Winter Palace, at a ball. It was … not something she had ever imagined possible. She couldn’t dance—she hoped they all knew that.

“The ball,” Leliana repeated patiently. “The Venatori plan some kind of attack on the Imperial Court. It is not impossible that Corypheus is fueling the conflict between the Empress and her cousin, the Grand Duke Gaspard. If we can warn Celene, she could prove a most valuable ally against Corypheus.”

Bridget nodded. “Of course. How long until we leave?”

“Two weeks.”

“That seems both not long enough and too long.”

Leliana unbent enough to smile. “My sentiments exactly.” There was a silence, and then the words came from her, unwillingly. “What was she like? Divine Justinia, or the spirit that took her form. I know it isn’t clear, but … I need to know.”

Bridget considered how to put it. “She was … she refused to say anything outright. Personally, I could have used more direct answers and fewer journeys of self-discovery.”

“Yes. She made a lot of people feel that way.” Leliana was looking over Bridget’s shoulder at something in her memory, her eyes softer and sadder than Bridget had ever seen them.

“She did ask me to tell you something. She said, ‘I’m sorry. I failed you, too.’”

Leliana gasped as if she had been struck. “I … thank you for telling me.” She looked up at Bridget. “In the Fade, the first time. After the Conclave. You remember now?”

“Yes.”

“You said Justinia was with you there, but … only you emerged. Can you tell me what happened?”

Bridget didn’t want to. She still felt tremendous guilt over having left the Divine in the Fade, however much the Anchor may have made that the right choice. But Leliana loved Justinia. She deserved to know everything. “Justinia saved my life. She knew that it was either her or me, and she wanted me to live.” She opened her fist, displaying the Anchor’s glow. “Probably because she knew the Anchor was going to be needed.”

“She would have done so anyway. That was like her, always thinking of others.” Leliana shook her head. “That message to me … ‘I failed you, too.’ I’m not sure what that means. Was there—did she say anything else, anything at all? Please, if you remember …”

“There was nothing else.”

Leliana stood up, saying briskly, “We are foolish to try to find meaning there, anyway. There are no answers in the Fade, only illusions. A warped mirror.” She shook her head. “I was her Left Hand, her trusted assistant, and she is dead. _I_ failed _her_.”

“I don’t believe that. I don’t believe she would have thought that.”

“You didn’t know her.”

“No, but I know you, and I can see her in you.”

Leliana’s face pinched as though she was trying to hold back tears. “That is kind of you to say. Thank you.”

“I mean it.”

“Yes, I believe you do.” Leliana nodded. She took her seat again and shuffled some papers meaningfully, and Bridget, recognizing her cue, took her leave.

Downstairs, she found Varric in his usual spot, quill in hand, but motionless. He looked up as she approached. “You know, I knew Stroud.” 

“Did you?”

“Not well, but we’d spoken.”

“He was a brave man.”

“A hero when it mattered,” Varric agreed. “Is it terrible of me to say I’m glad I wasn’t there, in the Fade?”

“Only if it’s equally terrible of me to say I wish I hadn’t been.” Bridget took the seat across from him. 

Varric looked down at the mostly blank page in front of him. “This story’s no good for heroes. Too many of them have fallen to Corypheus … and they won’t be the last.”

“No.” Bridget was alarmed by this doom-and-gloom filled Varric. She had never seen him like this. She smiled at him encouragingly. “At least Hawke made it through in one piece, and is well away from all this now.”

“Lucky bastard.” But Varric didn’t crack a smile.

“I have something to tell you. Something that might just cheer you right up.”

“Do you, Sunflower?”

She nodded. “Cassandra is waiting—impatiently—for the next issue of _Swords & Shields_.”

Varric frowned at her. “I must have heard you wrong. I could have sworn you just told me that the Seeker reads my books.”

“Reads? No. Try ‘devours’. Passionately.”

“Oh, that is a disturbing image. And priceless. Absolutely priceless.” Now he did smile, Bridget was relieved to see. Then he frowned. “Wait ,you said the romance serial? Oh, she’s going to be waiting a long time. I haven’t finished it. Truthfully, I wasn’t planning to. It’s easily the worst book I’ve ever written. The last issue barely sold enough to pay for the ink.”

“Well, be that as it may, Cassandra’s hooked on it.”

Varric shook his head, chuckling. “Just when you think the weirdest thing possible has already happened.” He looked at her across the table, and his eyebrows flew up. “Wait, you want me to finish it for her.”

Bridget put on an innocent look and held his gaze.

“Yeah, you’re right. It’s such a terrible idea, I have to do it. But only on condition that I get to be there when you give it to her.”

That was likely to go very badly, Bridget reflected, but if it was the only way … “Done.”

“This is going to be so much fun.” He took the top sheet off the stack in front of him, crumpled it up, and threw it over his shoulder in the direction of the fire, before attacking the next sheet with a quill. He paused and grinned at Bridget. “You know, the fact that it’s terrible really makes it seem more worthwhile, somehow.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Bridget told him, getting to her feet.

He was already hard at work, and didn’t seem to see her go.

She went straight from Varric’s table to the Undercroft, where she spent some time with Harritt going over the items they had brought back from the Western Approach and determining some upgrades and some repairs.

The new Arcanist was there, too, a red-haired dwarf who talked a mile a minute. She wanted to see the Anchor—actually, she wanted to touch the Anchor, to smell it and taste it and, it appeared, to listen to it. Bridget found it all vaguely creepy, but then, an Arcanist was often a job for … unusual people, based on what she had seen in the Circle and read in her histories. It was particularly odd to see a dwarf handling magical instruments, although on further consideration she supposed it shouldn’t be. After all, dwarves had a natural affinity for lyrium, and an immunity, too.

Dagna had been assisted in leaving Orzammar to study in the Circles by the Grey Warden, Queen Una of Ferelden, a woman Bridget devoutly hoped she would one day have the chance to meet. The little dwarf went into great detail about the height and beauty of the Warden, about the Circles she’d been to … about everything that came to her mind, it seemed. She was still talking when Bridget made her escape. Harritt seemed to handle it all right, fortunately, drowning her out with his hammer on the forge when he needed a break.

She remembered that Cullen had been the one to recommend Dagna and she headed to his office to ask him about it. But he wasn’t there, and the elven soldier who was there told Bridget he had last been seen looking for Cassandra. At first, Bridget thought nothing of it … but then she remembered Cullen’s confession about the lyrium, and his assignment of Cassandra to the task of watching over him, and her pulse quickened. She hurried off in the direction of the blacksmith’s shop, where Cassandra had her quarters.

They were deep in conversation when she pushed open the door, conversation that stopped abruptly as soon as they saw her. 

With a very brief nod for Bridget, Cullen snapped at Cassandra, “We will speak of this again later,” and pushed past Bridget to the door.

“Nothing will have changed,” Cassandra called after him. She shook her head. “And people say _I’m_ stubborn. He is ridiculous.”

“He thinks he’s not fit to command because of the lyrium?”

“Yes. He wants me to recommend a replacement for him, and I have refused. It’s not necessary.” Cassandra folded her arms over her chest and stared at Bridget defiantly, daring her to disagree. Then, more softly, she added, “Besides, it would destroy him. He’s … come so far already, it would be a shame to lose so much progress. Cullen has a chance to break the lyrium leash that holds him, to prove to himself, and to anyone who would wish to follow suit, that it’s possible.”

“A laudable goal.”

“And one that he can reach, with our support.” There was a plea in Cassandra’s gaze now. “He _can_ do this. I knew that when we met in Kirkwall.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Bridget told her. “If at all possible, I’ll encourage him to stay strong.”

“Thank you.” Cassandra hesitated, then added, “I was considering writing the story of your time in the Fade.”

“Really?” 

“Yes. Writing does not come naturally to me, as I’m certain you can imagine, but … historians will one day ask what happened there. The accounts of those present must be recorded.”

Thinking of what Dorian had said, about others who might be tempted to follow Bridget’s footsteps into the Fade, she said, “Just … be careful what you write.”

“Of course. I am not unaware of the weight my words might carry. I … still don’t know what to say about the spirit of the Divine.”

Bridget shook her head. “Nor do I.”

Cassandra frowned thoughtfully. “The Chantry teaches that the souls of the dead pass through the Fade, so it could have been her. Even so …”

“You really think it might have been her?” Bridget asked, surprised.

“A ghost, a remnant of her hopes and memories, her lingering will to do good ...” Cassandra shrugged. “It is not impossible. Nobody knows for certain what happens when we die. Or a spirit could have assumed her form—but why?”

“Because we trusted it,” Bridget suggested.

“Yes. Possibly. And it helped you, as Justinia herself would have.”

“I don’t know, Cassandra. I’m not sure I’m meant to know.”

Cassandra gave a small smile. “Sadly, unanswered questions make for poor reading.” She looked at Bridget, her eyes softening. “I was terrified for you, you know.”

“I’m sorry I frightened you.”

“And I am glad you have returned in one piece.”

“As am I.” They shared a smile.

Cassandra tilted her head to the side, studying Bridget with curiosity. “What do you think is the Maker’s plan for the Inquisition?”

“Oh, that’s a large question. I suppose … we make the world a better place?”

“Yes, because everyone agrees on what ‘better’ means. I know that I want a world in which people trust the Chantry and that trust is respected. To respect tradition but not fear change, to right past wrongs but not avenge them. But does my wanting those things make them right? I don’t know.”

“If they’re not right, they’re at least admirable,” Bridget offered.

“Some would disagree. They would call it heresy.”

“That didn’t sound like the ravings of a heretic.”

“Perhaps not, but it takes precious little effort to paint even an act of compassion as damaging.” She gave Bridget a searching glance. “Tell me, what is it that guides you? From the first, there seems to have been a thread pulling you forward. You make decisions that shake the world, yet always seem so assured. I wish I had your confidence.”

Bridget was flabbergasted. To hear those words from possibly the most confident person she’d ever met? She was torn between feeling pleased at the compliment and feeling frightened that no one knew they were being led by someone who didn’t know what she was doing. Since Cassandra was clearly waiting for an answer, she shrugged, saying, “I suppose—not wanting to look like an idiot? Not wanting to fail those who have put their trust in me?”

“Do not sell yourself short. While I may not always agree with your decisions, you must know how few people could do what you have done. You were a prisoner, accused and reviled, yet you have emerged from every trial victorious. I have to wonder how you manage.”

It was the answer Bridget had looked for, over and over, as to how to do this job, and she gave Cassandra the best that she had come up with. “I do what must be done. What other choice is there?”

Cassandra nodded, satisfied. “The demands of the moment. Yes.” She smiled. “Think of it—once again the fate of Thedas will be determined by a woman.”

Bridget returned the smile. “As it should be.”

“It makes me proud to know you.” She put a hand on Bridget’s shoulder. “We still have a long road ahead of us, but wherever it takes us, I’m glad you’re here.”

“Thank you. I couldn’t ask for a better friend to walk it with.” They stayed like that, enjoying the moment, and then Bridget went in search of Cullen.

She found him in his office, standing behind his desk, staring down at the box of lyrium supplies. Before he saw her, he picked them up and with a mighty shout, threw the whole box as hard as he could across the room. It and its contents shattered against the doorframe, fragments of glass missing Bridget’s face by inches. She could smell the acrid scent of lyrium, and she wrinkled her nose.

Cullen blanched, seeing her there. “Maker’s breath! I mean, I didn’t hear you enter. I mean, I’m sorry. I—“

Bridget held up a hand to stop the flow of his words. 

He sighed. “Forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive. Talk to me, Cullen.”

“You don’t have to—“ He gasped in pain, catching himself against the desk, his eyes closing against the spasm. “I—I never meant for this to interfere.”

“I know.”

“For whatever good it does,” he said bitterly. “Promises mean nothing if I cannot keep them.”

“What of your promise to yourself, to beat this thing?”

He shook his head, looking down at his clenched fist on the desk. “You asked me once what happened in Ferelden’s Circle. It was taken by abominations. The Templars—my friends—were slaughtered.”

Bridget could imagine the scene all too easily. The thought of it made her sick. “I’m sorry.”

Cullen went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “I was tortured. They tried to break my mind, and I—how can you be the same person after that? Still,” he continued, softly, speaking almost to himself, “I wanted to serve. So they sent me to Kirkwall. I trusted my Knight-Commander, and for what? Her fear of mages ended in madness. Kirkwall’s Circle fell. Innocent people died in the streets. Can’t you see why I wanted nothing more to do with that life?”

Afraid to trust her voice, afraid that he would see in her the faces of too many mages gone wrong, Bridget nodded.

But that seemed to make him even angrier. “You should be questioning what I’ve done. I thought—I thought this would be better, I thought I would regain some control, but these thoughts won’t leave me.” He growled the last few words. “How many lives depend on our success? I swore myself to this cause! I will not give less to the Inquisition than I gave to the Chantry. I should be taking it!” He said it again, more softly, saddened by the admission but certain of it. “I should be taking it.”

“Cullen. Tell me why you became a Templar.”

“I—“ He hadn’t been prepared for the question, and he closed his eyes, thinking back, trying to give her an answer. “I could think of no better calling than to protect those in need. I used to beg the Templars at our local Chantry to teach me.” He smiled, relaxing as he recalled those days. “At first they merely humored me, but I must have shown promise, or at least a willingness to learn. The Knight-Captain spoke to my parents and they agreed to send me for training. I … wanted to be the best Templar I could be.”

“Remember that, then,” she told him. “That desire to be the best you can be. The Inquisition can be your chance to start over, to find that drive again—if you want it to be.”

“Is that even possible?”

“Of course it is.”

He sighed, nodding. “All right.”

Bridget reached out, putting her hand on his shoulder. “You give enough, Cullen. No one’s asking you for more.” 

Not wanting to prolong his discomfort, she left him there to resolve his troubles by work, which always seemed to be his best medicine.

At last the long day was over and she climbed the steps to her own quarters. She found Blackwall already there, sitting out on the balcony. He had a piece of wood and a knife in his hand, but he wasn’t whittling anything, just sitting there looking out at the stars.

“Someone I knew once described Adamant to me,” he said softly as she came to the door and leaned her shoulder against the frame. “’Adamant is, and always will be, the Order,’ he said. So what does that mean now? We destroyed Adamant. Did we destroy the Order?”

“Of course not.”

“’A guardian on the edge of the abyss, the lone soul that stares into oblivion and doesn’t waver,’” he quoted. “They wavered. They wavered, and I—how can they be the same?”

She thought of Cullen asking her the same question about his experience at the hands of the demons and abominations in Ferelden’s Circle. “Perhaps they push through and find new strength. After all … they tried. Warden Clarel tried to stare into oblivion and do what she thought was right. They all did. And they gave their lives willingly.”

“Yes. They died for us.” His fist clenched on the handle of the knife. “And Corypheus twisted their sacrifice to make it his own!”

“And that’s why we’re going to kill him.”

He looked up at her. “You sound very sure.”

“Aren’t you?”

He snorted. “Very seldom.” Looking back out at the stars, he shook his head. “It’s not right. To want to do good, to _be_ good, and to have that turned against you.”

Bridget went to him, putting a hand gently on his shoulder. “You’ve never faltered, never wavered. You never will.”

He winced as if something in her words caused him pain. “I wish I believed that.”

“I can believe it enough for both of us.”

Taking her hand in his, he kissed the backs of her fingers. His hand wrapped around hers, holding it tightly. “Before the Inquisition, before you, all I had was the Wardens, the vow I made to them. Before the vow, I had nothing. I was nothing.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Believe it or not, as you will, it remains the truth. It’s not the armor, or the trappings of the Order. It’s not the Joining. At the heart of it, all a Warden is is a promise, to protect others—even at the cost of your own life.”

“They fulfilled that promise.”

“Did they?”

“To the best of their ability.”

He looked up at her and shook his head. “I don’t know whether to admire the strength of your beliefs, or worry about your tendency to see the best in everyone.”

“How about instead of either one, you come to bed and I help you take your mind off things?” she offered, tugging slightly on the hand that held hers.

“You make a tempting offer.”

“Tempting enough that you’ll agree to it?”

He smiled, getting to his feet. “If I must.” He left the stick and the knife on the chair, and allowed her to lead him into the bedroom.

They had been sharing a bed nearly every night, but she still couldn’t get enough of him. The muscular hairy chest beneath her fingers, the roughness of his beard against her skin, the heat of his breath in her ear, the way he filled her, completed her, brought her to pleasure over and over again before seeking his own. But possibly the best part was falling asleep in his arms, feeling safe and secure and certain that she was right where she belonged.


	27. Judgments

The next morning, Bridget found herself in Solas’s atrium. It was one of the calmest places in Skyhold, always soothing to visit.

He looked up from the table in the center of the room, on which he had spread a large number of pieces of parchment and several curios he had picked up in his travels. “Bridget,” he said with a smile. “What brings you to see me today?”

“I was looking for a bit of peace and quiet.”

“I am glad you think of me as a refuge.” He waved her toward the sofa that sat along the wall, and Bridget sank into it with a sigh. Solas regarded her with curiosity. “Why do you need peace and quiet today?”

“Judgments. Ser Erimond and a Grey Warden they’ve brought in and the mayor of Crestwood. I hate judging people. I mean … everyone makes mistakes. Do they really need to pay for them for the rest of their lives?”

“But when those mistakes ruin the lives of others, should the people responsible not pay for what they’ve done?”

Bridget nodded. “A good point. It’s why I agree to do them … but I don’t like it. Tell me, Solas, what would you do to the Wardens?”

“You will not like it.”

“Be that as it may, I’m asking.”

“The idea of seeking out the Old Gods deliberately in some bizarre attempt to preempt the Blights—it was foolish. And short-sighted.”

“Their minds were being played with by a being far beyond their understanding,” Bridget reminded him.

“Ah, but is he? They held Corypheus in their power for hundreds of years. How is it they never learned what he was capable of? They should have known.” His tone was surprisingly bitter.

“They care for nothing but stopping the darkspawn. That is their reason for existence. By holding him, no doubt they imagined they were stopping him.”

“A facile response. Their actions were the same as those of a fair maiden who chases a butterfly with such total focus that she falls off a cliff in the pursuit. Except that if you had not stopped them, the whole world would have been drawn into their fall. Responsibility is not expertise,” he said hotly. “Action is not inherently superior to inaction.” He caught himself, smiling at her. “Forgive me. I know where your affections, your sympathies, must lie.”

“They lie with a man, not with the entirety of the Grey Wardens.”

“Can you separate the two? He seems—devoted to the idea of them.”

It was an interesting thought, that Blackwall loved the idea of the Wardens more than he did the Wardens themselves. It made many of his responses at Adamant and since make more sense, not to mention explaining the years he had spent alone in the Fereldan wilderness far from his fellow Wardens. “Solas?” she said abruptly.

“Yes?”

“You must have dreamt at Ostagar. What was it like?”

He nodded, confirming her assumption. “Battlefields are rich places to dream. Spirits press so tightly on the Veil that you can slip across with but a thought. At Ostagar I witnessed the brutality of the darkspawn and the valor of the Fereldan warriors. I saw Alistair and the Hero of Ferelden light the signal fire … and Loghain’s infamous betrayal of Cailan’s forces.”

“And? After all the stories, what is it that really happened?”

Solas shook his head at her. “It isn’t like that. In the Fade, what I see are reflections created by spirits who react to the emotions of the warriors. So in one moment, the story of the battle is that of heroic Wardens lighting the fire and a power-mad villain sneering as he lets his king fall … and in the next, the story is that of an army overwhelmed and a veteran commander refusing to let more soldiers die in a lost cause. Each is true, depending on who is telling the story.”

“What do you know of Corypheus, then? What will he do next?”

“You shamed him when you destroyed Haven and spoiled his glorious victory, and now you have taken from him his demon army. But he cannot allow himself to acknowledge that you have ruined his grand plans. He must continue on his course or show weakness—and men who attempt to become gods cannot afford to be weak, neither in the eyes of their followers or of their enemies. He will turn with more fervor than ever to his plans to throw Orlais into chaos and conquer it in the name of Tevinter—but truly for himself. The Venatori are nothing but his pawns.” He frowned, his eyes dark and flat with anger. “No real god ever need prove himself. Anyone who tries is either mad or lying. Corypheus fails to understand this. His deception will undo him, as such deceptions have undone countless fools before him.”

“You told me before that the orb Corypheus carried, the one that created the Anchor, is elven.”

“Yes. I appreciate that you have not shared that information. My people do not deserve that additional burden.”

“No, they don’t,” Bridget agreed. “How did you know it was elven?”

“I have seen such things in the Fade,” he explained, although Bridget thought he hesitated before beginning the explanation. “They are foci, used to channel ancient magicks. It is very old magic, so old that Corypheus may believe it is of Tevinter. His empire’s magic was built on the bones of my people.” He looked at her closely. “Tell me, what were you like before the Anchor?”

It seemed such an odd question that Bridget was momentarily uncertain how to answer.

Solas went on, “I wish to know if you feel it has affected you in any way, changed you. Your mind, your morals … your spirit?” 

“Oh. I don’t believe so. I am … stronger, less fearful, more decisive, but I believe that is the effect of becoming the Inquisitor. Indirectly caused by the Anchor, certainly, but I think that the circumstances the Anchor has led me to have changed me more than the Anchor itself. Why do you ask?”

“You show a certain … wisdom that I have not seen since … my deepest journeys into the ancient memories of the Fade. I had hoped to find—some remnant of my people’s lost spirit, perhaps?”

“In that case, I’m sorry I can’t claim to have been more altered.” She wasn’t; she didn’t like the idea of the Anchor changing her being. But she saw the sadness in Solas and wished to be polite.

He nodded, acknowledging her words and the thought behind them. “Many people in your position would use the Inquisition as a blunt instrument in their rise to power.”

“I can barely handle the power I already have. I don’t know what I would do with more.”

“Yes, I see that. And I respect you for it.”

“Thank you.”

Just then Josephine poked her head in the door. “Ah, there you are, Inquisitor. We have been looking for you.”

“You’re ready to begin?”

“Yes, if you are.”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” Bridget got to her feet. “Thank you for the talk, Solas.”

“Anytime.”

She had the sense that he was watching her as she left the room, and not for the first time she wondered where exactly he had come from.   
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Blackwall took up a spot at the back of the room, towards the side, where he had a good view of the seat on the dais where his lady sat. She looked tired, and while he would have liked to claim credit for that, he knew it had more to do with these judgments and how much she hated having to hold someone’s life in her hands. It was a terrible responsibility for anyone—but he knew that he wasn’t alone in feeling that if anyone had to do it, she was among the better choices.

Josephine, standing near the seat, lifted her clipboard. “First, I present to you Gregory Dedrick, former mayor of Crestwood, charged with betraying his own constituents.”

This man. The one who had drowned his own people along with the refugees from the Blight, out of fear of Blight sickness. Blackwall hated what he had done … but Blight sickness was awful, and contagious, and little understood. Had Dedrick not taken the actions he had, would anyone in Crestwood still be alive? It was hard to say.

Bridget leaned forward. “If you have anything to say in your own defense, speak up now.”

The former mayor lifted his head wearily. “There’s no cure for the Blight. But you can’t tell that to someone watching their child, or their husband, suffer, and praying for a miracle.”

“So you herded the infected into one place and flooded Old Crestwood?” Josephine demanded indignantly. “Tell me, can you be certain no innocents were caught in the waters?”

“Nearly everyone in the village had the Blight! How was I to separate them without further contaminating those few who were well? And then, how could I tell the survivors that I had drowned their families in order to save them? Have mercy.”

Bridget studied him for a long time. At last she said, “Your crimes were committed on Fereldan soil. I’m sending you to Denerim, to stand in front of the king and queen and tell them your story. They can decide your punishment.”

“Life in prison? Maker. I should have drowned with the others,” Dedrick moaned as he was being led away. 

Blackwall wasn’t so certain. Ferelden’s monarchs were both Grey Wardens. No doubt they had seen their fair share of Blight sickness in all its stages. They might well have more mercy on Dedrick than he imagined.

The next set of guards stepped forward, pulling along a woman in Grey Warden armor. 

“Another of the lingering pains of Adamant, Your Worship,” Josephine said.

Blackwall saw Bridget wince. She hated being addressed that way, and had prevailed on Josephine a number of times to stop, ineffectually, it appeared.

“Ser Ruth is a senior Warden of the Order. She was one of the many who slit the throat of another to bind a demon. She admits to her crime freely. In fact, she surrendered to us. She requests no mercy. She wishes to face the public justice of the headman’s axe.”

On the throne, Bridget glanced around the spectators—looking for him, Blackwall imagined. He made sure to stay out of her line of sight, not wanting to influence her decisions in any way, or give her any reason to be accused of favoritism on his account.

Then Bridget waited, quietly, until Ser Ruth looked up and met her eyes. “Is more death truly the answer?” she asked gently.

“There is no excuse for my actions,” Ser Ruth said. “I murdered another of the Order. That blood marks me more than the Blight ever could.”

“Many treaties allow Wardens any extreme, if it opposes the Blight,” Josephine pointed out.

“No! I can’t do it. I can’t use the greater good to justify my crimes, as if that would create any future that I could be a part of. It is wrong that this broke me. I deserve death, public and painful and final. I can do nothing except be an example of the cost.”

There was no hesitation in Bridget as she responded. “You would throw your life away, but a Warden’s life is too valuable to be lost in such a manner. You feel your life is over? There is a place for such Wardens, so I understand. Ser Ruth, you will go to the Deep Roads. Your death there may be as quick as you choose, but you will end your life performing the duties you agreed to take on when you became a Warden.”

There were mutters around him, but Blackwall ignored them. She understood. What it meant to be a Warden, what they promised. Perhaps when inevitably she found out about him, he could ask for the same sentence.

Ser Ruth was shaking her head, confused and unhappy. “But … that sends no message. It is just … an end.”

“An end is more than many people receive,” Bridget told her. “Take yours and make it count for something.”

The whole room rustled a bit after that, because they all knew who was next. Josephine’s tones were darker when she introduced him than they had been for the first two. “I submit Lord Livius Erimond of Vyrantium, who remains loyal to Corypheus. We found him alive, offering extreme resistance. Likely because the Order will ask for his head. For a start. To say nothing of what justice you might personally require for what was suffered in the Fade,” she added.

Blackwall vividly remembered the feeling of falling through the air thinking his life was over—thinking her life was over. He could wring the man’s neck with his bare hands for that, over and above what he had done to the Grey Wardens.

“Countless better men and women than you are dead. Why should you meet with any different fate?” Bridget asked, her voice hard.

“I recognize none of this proceeding,” Erimond said defiantly. “You have no authority to judge me.”

“On the contrary,” Josephine told him, “many officials have communicated that they will be happy to defer to the Inquisitor on this matter.”

“Yes,” sneered Erimond, “because they fear. Not just Corypheus, but Tevinter, rightful ruler of every piece of ground you’ve trod on in your pathetic life.”

Behind him, Blackwall heard a snort, and turned to see Dorian glaring at his fellow Tevinter, his grey eyes icy shards.

“I served a living god! Bring down your blades and free me from the physical if you will. Glory awaits me on the other side.”

Bridget raised her eyebrows at the man’s grandiose claims. “Any protection you thought you had has apparently been withdrawn. No one has come for you, no one has asked for you. No one cares what happens to you, it seems.” She hesitated only a moment. “You will die, by my hand. Today.”

There were startled murmurs throughout the room.

Erimond, to his credit, didn’t flinch, not even as he was being led out to the courtyard. And to her credit, neither did Bridget. She raised the sword and brought it down in a single clean stroke, and she descended the stairs with her back firm and straight.

But she caught Blackwall’s eye, and he could see in her face the turmoil and the unhappiness the action had caused her. Discreetly, he followed her progress and joined her upstairs in her quarters, where she threw herself into his arms and wept at the enormity of what she had done.


	28. About Orlais

Blackwall was on his way to the training grounds when he saw the Iron Bull off in a corner, facing off against Cassandra, who was beating at him … with a stick? Intrigued, Blackwall headed their way to see what the purpose of this was. He didn’t necessarily trust the Qunari to have the Inquisition’s, or Bridget’s, best interests at heart, but the big horned giant was awesome in a fight and entertaining to have around, and Blackwall found his unusual worldview intriguing.

As Blackwall approached, Cassandra wound up with the stick and smacked the Qunari hard in the midsection with it.

The Iron Bull grunted, setting himself for another strike. “Again.” He seemed disappointed in Cassandra’s next effort. “Oh, come on! This is why the Qun doesn’t like women fighting. I should’ve asked Cullen.”

Cassandra narrowed her eyes at the Qunari’s words, and Blackwall chuckled to himself. If there was anything more calculated to get her best hit out of Cassandra, he didn’t know what it would be. Unsurprisingly, her next strike was a mighty blow, laying the Iron Bull flat on the ground.

Wheezing, he moaned, “Good one.”

The Seeker turned and saw Blackwall standing there. “Oh, good. Perhaps you can take over. Maybe the Grey Warden will be able to hit you more to your satisfaction?” she shot at the Iron Bull. Clearly he wasn’t going to live that comment down any time soon.

She handed the stick to Blackwall, who shifted it more comfortably in his grip. “What are we doing here?” he asked as the Iron Bull got slowly up off the ground. “Not that I object to whacking you with a great bloody stick, but it seems like it’ll be more fun if I know why.”

“It’s a Qunari training exercise to master your fear. Been a while since I needed it, but that nightmare demon …" He shuddered. "That fucker was big.”

Blackwall could understand. Sometimes he felt like that at night, with Bridget’s slender fingers on his body—the torment of knowing that he didn’t deserve her helped him withstand the fear that he would lose her one day.

The Iron Bull shrugged. “I mean, I could explain it more fully, but it’d involve a lot of Qunari words.”

“No need,” Blackwall assured him, and walloped him hard.

“Oof! Yeah, like that. That’s what I need to get past this demon crap.”

Blackwall wound up and hit him again, and again, the Qunari’s vocal approval and grunts of pain accompanying him. It wasn’t unlike sex, really, he reflected with amusement, as the Iron Bull’s rapturous battle cry increased in pitch and triumph.

At last he sighed, holding up his hand for Blackwall to stop. “I needed that. Thanks, Blackwall.”

“Oh, anytime. Really. Don’t hesitate,” Blackwall said dryly.

The Iron Bull clapped him on the back, laughing. “Let’s get a drink, eh?”

“Sure. Sounds good.” Blackwall had built up a thirst, working that stick.

They went into the tavern. The Iron Bull lived there, so it was no surprise to Blackwall when all he had to do was nod at Cabot, the bartender, and two tankards of ale appeared on the bar. They carried them to a table in the back.

“So … Blackwall. That’s what, Marcher?”

“Originally.”

“But you spent time in Orlais.”

Blackwall didn’t like the sharpness in the single grey eye that was surveying him. The Iron Bull was far more intelligent than he liked to pretend to be, and extremely observant. “A little,” he agreed cautiously. To forestall further questions coming his way, he turned one around on the Qunari. “And you—did I hear you were assigned to Seheron? Always wanted to go there, myself. What was it like?”

“No,” the Iron Bull said shortly. “You don’t want to go there. It’s a damn ugly place, and it was only getting uglier when I left.” He shook his head, looking down into his tankard. “Between the Fog Warriors, the Tal-Vashoth, my people, and the Vints, you couldn’t go a day without blood. Everyone fighting everyone, until you forgot who was on your side. Until you weren’t sure if anyone was.”

“Tal-Vashoth. Those are the ones who look like your people but aren’t?”

“Yeah. The ones who can’t handle the fighting or lose faith in the Qun and go rogue. They flee into the wilderness and turn into bandits, attacking everyone. They’re vicious; savage. One look at them and you can see why my people need the Qun to stay civilized.”

“Civilized’s an interesting word. I don't imagine the rest of Thedas would use it to describe your people.”

“Compared with Tal-Vashoth they would. Ever seen one?”

“No. Not a lot of Tal-Vashoth in the Fereldan wilds.”

The Iron Bull grunted, draining his tankard. “Cabot! Where in the Void are you with the next round?”

The bartender came over with four more mugs in his hands, putting them down on the table with less hostility than Blackwall would have expected. The Iron Bull tossed him a coin—before it disappeared into Cabot’s hand, Blackwall saw the glint of gold. That would explain how the Qunari got special treatment; Cabot didn’t usually come out from behind the bar, not even for the Inquisitor. Blackwall wondered how much else the Iron Bull’s gold paid for. Cabot heard a lot. Did he report back to the Qunari?

Meeting the Iron Bull’s eye, Blackwall saw a smile in there, as if his thoughts were written plainly on his face. To a Qunari spy, maybe they were. “Isn’t Tal-Vashoth your cover story?” he asked.

The Iron Bull sat forward, and Blackwall was pleased to see his shot had gone home. The Qunari’s skin wasn’t as thick as he pretended. “When I burned out, I didn’t go rogue,” he growled. “I reported in and went where the Ben-Hassrath sent me. I’m doing my job, serving the Qun out here. I’m not some bandit. I am _nothing_ like them,” he added viciously.

“I didn’t say that was who you were; just who you pretended to be,” Blackwall pointed out. 

“Hey. I’m a merc, not a bandit. There’s a difference.”

Blackwall hadn’t considered it before, but he supposed there was. He nodded.

The Iron Bull grunted, satisfied.

“You know, I’ve always wondered something.”

“Oh, this oughta be good.”

“Why don’t you wear heavier armor on your blind side?” The Iron Bull’s armor was light in general, but he tended to wear more of it on the side with the good eye.

The Qunari shrugged. “If I did that, I’d just be telling people where to hit me.” He grinned. “As it is, every half-decent fighter sees the eye and thinks he can feint, then come in with a low stab.Then I chop his head off. It’s like a gimme.”

“Come on, that can’t work every time.”

“It doesn’t. But taking a blade to the ribs is a pretty good teacher.”

Blackwall stood up abruptly, draining his mug. “Come on, I want to go test that out.”

“Oh, yeah, you’re on. Ten silvers says I predict your move every time.”

“Nobody’s that good.” The Iron Bull raised his eyebrow, and Blackwall shook his head. “All right, but fair warning—I’m going to enjoy taking your money.”

“If you could manage to get any of it, I wouldn’t blame you.” As they ambled toward the training ground, the Iron Bull looked down at Blackwall. “So, you and the boss?”

“Yes?” Blackwall drew the word out warningly.

“She seems so fragile, like she’d break if you breathed on her wrong.”

“You’ve been in combat with her enough to know that’s not true.” It was, in fact, what Blackwall had originally thought, but the more he got to know her, the more he understood and respected the core of strength at Bridget’s center. 

“In bed, too, eh?” Blackwall frowned at him, and the Qunari laughed. “Come on, let’s see you try to beat the crap out of me.”  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Bridget presented herself at Vivienne’s door at the time the older mage had appointed for tea. It irritated Bridget mildly to be expected to fit her schedule to Vivienne’s, but she was also aware that Madame de Fer had spent a great deal of time and effort working her way to the top of Orlesian society, a place where one had everything one wanted at exactly the time it was wanted. Waiting on someone else’s schedule would be a hard lesson for Vivienne to learn.

“Ah, my dear, exactly on time. How refreshingly punctual.” They exchanged air kisses, and Vivienne led Bridget to the low table by the sunny window where the tea things were arranged.

When they were both seated comfortably, with cups of steaming tea and plates of delectable little sandwiches and cakes, Bridget tried to decide how best to get the other woman to come to the point. While Vivienne’s tales of gossip from the Orlesian court were entertaining, there was a War Meeting later this afternoon that Bridget wanted to be prepared for.

Watching her, Vivienne smiled her lovely smile. “I forget that you are a Marcher through and through.”

“You’re also from the Free Marches, though,” Bridget pointed out.

“Yes, of course, but I rid myself long ago of that tedious need to pay attention to the clock and the equally tedious urge to stay busy—dreadful word.” Vivienne shuddered. “I am Orlesian to the core, now.”

Bridget wondered if that were true. It appeared so, but there was that inner aspect of Vivienne that no one was allowed to see—at least, no one in the Inquisition—and Bridget imagined that if anything remained of the mage’s Marcher background, it would be buried there.

“Besides,” Vivienne continued, “these stories will serve you well when you attend the Empress’s ball.”

“Yes, I’m certain they will.” The whole thing filled Bridget with terror. She didn’t know how to dance, didn’t know how she was going to approach the Empress of Orlais with anything like a sense of composure, and certainly couldn’t play this “Game” she had heard so much about.

“I hope you will allow me to advise you in the coming weeks before it is time to leave.”

“Of course. I would appreciate it very much!” Bridget assured the other mage. “Do I … will I need to wear a mask?”

Vivienne considered that. “It would be appropriate, but not necessarily in keeping with the Inquisition’s reputation. You should consult Josephine and Leliana—no doubt they have a plan.”

No doubt they did.

Putting down her teacup, Vivienne leaned forward, her expression serious. “You were correct that I have an ulterior motive for asking you to join me.” 

“Oh?”

“Yes. You—you were in the Fade. Physically. I confess to a burning curiosity to know what it was like.”

Bridget took a deep breath. She really just wanted to stop talking about it, to put the whole experience away so that she could consider it more carefully later, when there was time for it. But Vivienne was a fellow mage, and so Bridget tried to find words that would touch on how it had been. “In all the times I’ve been to the Fade, I have never felt it respond so strongly to my presence.”

“Naturally. You were there, touching it, altering things with your body as well as your mind. No one else has done that since the early Magisters assaulted the Golden City.”

Privately, Bridget inclined toward Sera’s way of thinking about that: She had been much happier when that was only a myth about a long-forgotten time, rather than a reality that brought everything else about that mythology into sharper focus.

“I don’t mind admitting that I am positively envious of you, my dear … and that is not something I say lightly.”

“No, I don’t imagine you do.” Bridget smiled. “Next time, you can go, and I’ll stay at Skyhold.”

“You laugh, but I would do so in an instant.” Vivienne looked almost wistful. “Yes.” Then she shook herself and retrieved her teacup. “Now, is there anything about Orlesian society that I can tell you?”

“Everything?” Bridget asked hopefully.

Vivienne laughed. “There isn’t time for that, but … perhaps I should begin by telling you about Celene.”

“Yes, please.”

The rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly—or as pleasantly as it could with Vivienne acting as Bridget’s instructress in all things Orlesian.

Later that evening, she stood on her balcony, letting the breeze cool her, when Blackwall joined her. He held two full wine glasses in his hands and gave her one before leaning on the railing next to her.

“What are you thinking about so hard?” he asked her.

“Orlais.”

He started, dropping his glass, and they both watched it fall down and down before the faint tinkle reached their ears as it shattered on the rocks below. “Sorry.”

“It wasn’t one of my favorites.” She drew back from the railing, though, wanting to make sure her glass didn’t share a similar fate. 

They settled down on the sofa in front of the fire. “What is it about Orlais that worries you?” Blackwall asked.

Bridget snorted a laugh. “What doesn’t? The Game, the protocol, the possibility—probability, really—that Corypheus is going to have the Empress killed, the clothes, the dancing …”

“The dancing?” He sounded surprised.

“Apparently you think the Circles are places where we regularly frolic and cavort.”

Blackwall grinned. “Only in very naughty stories.”

“Ah. That, sometimes.” She smiled, leaning her head against his shoulder. “As to formal dancing, however … it’s not exactly in the curriculum.” Sitting up again, she looked at him earnestly. “You will come, won’t you?”

He had stiffened; she could feel the tension in him. But he tried to answer easily. “What makes you think a grizzled old Grey Warden from the wilds of Ferelden knows anything about the Orlesian court?”

“What makes you think I care? I need you there.” She turned to him, gripping his arm, heedless of the thump of the empty wine glass falling to the carpeted floor. “Please? I mean, you’ve never refused to go anywhere with me before, but it’s been plain to me that you don’t want to go to this—you’ve been reluctant to go to Orlais at all, really—and I just want you to know that you don’t have to, but … I really want you there.” Knowing the position she was putting him in, and wishing her need for his comfort and reassurance wasn’t so great that she had to basically force him to agree this way, Bridget smiled, hoping to take the edge off. “And not just because I am romantic enough to want one moment of dancing in your arms at a ball just like … just like I was a normal person.”

He sat forward, his elbows on his knees, staring into the fire. He looked gaunt and weary, suddenly, and Bridget’s heart smote her for pressuring him. She was just about to tell him that it didn’t matter so much, not really, and she could do it without him, when he swung his head around and met her eyes and said, “Well, if we’re going to dance to impress the entire Orlesian court, we’d better give you some lessons, hadn’t we?”

She flung her arms around his neck. “Thank you. I know—I know this isn’t fair of me, and you would rather not, and I’m so grateful. I’ll be happy to make it up to you,” she whispered in his ear.

“Oh, that you will, my lass,” he growled. “But later. First, we dance.” He got up and crooked an elbow at her in a gesture as elegant as any Orlesian nobleman could be, and Bridget took his arm and allowed him to lead her out onto the front balcony. “Now. You stand there, and I’ll stand here. You curtsy, and I bow.”

He had to teach her how to curtsy, to Bridget’s embarrassment and her great amusement at seeing big, manly Blackwall dipping in a dainty curtsy. But then she picked up the steps rather quickly, advancing and retreating, coming near him and then darting away. The whole thing was an extended tease, and by the time their hands were touching she could barely concentrate on his instructions, wanting his hands on her so badly. He spun her gently around and caught her again, his hand resting on her waist, and Bridget pressed herself against him and kissed him passionately.

Blackwall responded with enthusiasm, chuckling as she broke the kiss. “That’s not part of the dance. At least … not where anyone can see.”

“Then let’s go in,” she said breathlessly.

“As my lady wishes.” He took her hand and drew her back inside, pulling her hungrily into his arms as soon as they had crossed the threshold, his fingers on the buttons of her jacket even as his tongue found hers. Bridget’s hands as feverishly worked the toggles on his jacket, both articles of clothing falling to the floor as they pressed against each other.

His mouth moved over her jaw and down her neck, tilting her head back. Bridget reached around and unfastened her breastband, slipping it off underneath the silk camisole she wore, and lifted her breasts in unmistakable invitation.

Blackwall groaned deep in his throat and took one nipple into his mouth, suckling it through the silk until it hardened, aching, under his attention. He moved to the other, repeating the process, his hands unfastening her pants and sliding them down over her hips and thighs.

Bridget kicked them away, standing before him in dampened camisole and equally damp smallclothes.

“Ah, lass, it’s too bad you can’t wear that to the ball.”

She reached up and took the pins out of her braid, letting it swing across her back, watching as Blackwall stripped off the rest of his clothes. He was hard already, and she gasped at the sight, an ache building inside her.

He embraced her, the warmth of his skin against hers so welcome. His hands roamed over her back and her rear and her hips, and Bridget wasn’t sure what felt better, his touch on her bare skin or his touch through the silk. At last, Blackwall let her go. Without his support, her legs trembled and threatened to buckle beneath her.

Blackwall lay down on the bed. “Come here.”

Bridget crawled on top of him, the seat of her smallclothes resting against the heated length of him. She wriggled, and they both moaned.

She worked the smallclothes off herself, trying awkwardly to do so without losing contact with him. They ground together, bare flesh against bare flesh, until at last she couldn’t stand the teasing any longer, and she reached down to take him in her hand, guiding him inside her.

It was exquisite. The brush of her most sensitive spot against him as she stroked back and forth, the gentle touch of his hands on her breasts, the sighs and moans he gave as his own passion rose toward completion. In the midst of her pleasure, Bridget had the dizzying thought that she could be perfectly happy making love to this man for the rest of her life.

The sheer rightness of the thought sent her over the edge, squeezing him with her internal muscles as she went, making certain he followed.

When the storm had passed, she collapsed on top of him, drowsily listening to his heart beat beneath her ear.

“More lessons tomorrow, then?” he asked eventually.

Bridget chuckled. “Yes, please.”


	29. To Save the Empress

Bridget was the first to arrive in the War Room the next day, for a change. Josephine had been busy at her desk, her quill moving so quickly Bridget couldn’t imagine what she was writing would be legible. She had waved Bridget past, indicating she would catch up soon. Where Cullen and Leliana could be was another question—Cullen, at least, seemed to run his life on the premise that on time equaled late, something Bridget was certain the Templars had drummed into him. Those in her Circle had prided themselves on always staying one step ahead of the clock—and of the mages.

She used her time alone to study the placings on the War Table, particularly those near the Winter Palace. So many intrigues represented by those markers! So much politics, so many people’s ruffled feathers to smooth. How would she ever manage to stay on top of it all at the ball? And not trip on her own feet in the dancing and not ruin the Inquisition’s reputation by saying the wrong thing to the wrong person and allay the widespread concerns about a mage in a position of such power … and, oh, yes, save the Empress from Corypheus in this never-ending attempt to keep the world safe from his plans for it?

The door opened behind her, and she heard Leliana’s voice. “It seems overwhelming when taken all at once, doesn’t it? Not to worry, Inquisitor—that is what we are here for: each of us to look at the big picture of our own particular portion of the Inquisition’s tasks and split them up amongst those we command.”

“And my job?”

“To take what we tell you and put it to use.”

Bridget nodded. “I think I can do that. Or, at least, I think I _have_ to do that, which is functionally the same.”

“It will become so,” Leliana assured her. “I have seen you succeed on such principles over and over again in your time with us, and I believe you will do so again.”

The door opened again, and Cullen hurried in, Josephine at his heels. “My apologies, Inquisitor. I was held up by that confounded Nevarran general who seems to want to know so much about our movements and troops.”

“Nevarran?” Leliana raised an eyebrow. “By way of Tevinter, I believe. I hope you told him nothing?”

“What do you think took so long? Saying nothing is remarkably time-consuming.”

Josephine chuckled. “Truer words were never spoken, Commander.”

“So, shall we get to the business at hand, then?” Bridget asked.

“You’re nervous about Halamshiral.” 

Bridget raised her eyebrows at her Ambassador’s questioning tone. “I would call ‘nervous’ a significant understatement. There are few things I do that are so far out of my comfort zone.”

Leliana smiled at her. “Yet, when we first met you, your ‘comfort zone’ consisted entirely of studying what was written in books. Now look at you. I am reliably informed you are becoming a force to contend with on the battleground.”

Blushing at the praise, Bridget waved a hand dismissively. “But I had to learn that—there were things trying to kill me.”

“Well, if that is all you need for motivation, trust me when I tell you that so are the Orlesian nobility.” Josephine smiled, but her eyes were serious.

“Indeed.” Cullen shuddered. “I prefer a battlefield, myself.”

“All lightness aside, we must go, and we must succeed. Corypheus must not be allowed to decide the fate of Orlais.”

“Do we know yet how Corypheus plans to reach Celene?” Josephine asked.

Leliana shook her head. “The ball is being held at the same time as peace talks with the usurper Gaspard and the elven ambassador Briala. Half of Orlais will be in attendance, I think. The field of potential assassins is very broad, and their opportunities will be many.”

“Whose brilliant idea was that? Usually Celene is more cautious,” Cullen snapped.

“Her cousin, Grand Duchess Florianne, urged her to do so, and Celene wished to indulge the girl. Who is Gaspard’s sister, may I add. She has never seemed to be particularly concerned with the civil war, and is closer to Celene than to her brother—but this is Orlais and it could well be all an act.”

“And Duke Gaspard? Do we think he’s likely to be an agent of Corypheus?”

Leliana sighed. “I wouldn’t think so, no. Gaspard lacks subtlety.”

“He plays the Game absolutely disastrously,” Josephine agreed.

“But we cannot afford to discount anyone.”

Bridget remembered the Orlesian history the Iron Bull and Blackwall had shared with her, and what she had learned from Vivienne. “Does he really think he can win back the throne through this civil war?”

“It’s difficult to say,” Cullen answered. “Celene has won over the Council of Heralds, who hold authority over title disputes … but Gaspard is well loved by the troops, including Celene’s, and as a Chevalier himself, he retained the loyalty of most of their number when he turned on the Empress. He has the might to take the country by force, but not necessarily the support from the nobility to rule once he does so, which is no doubt why he agreed to the peace talks.”

“The Chevaliers believe Gaspard can lead the Empire back to the glory of Drakon’s expansion years,” Leliana said. “If he can convince the nobility that he can truly do so, then he could secure their support. But he hasn’t the requisite fluidity of tongue that would be required.”

“And you said the other person was ambassador Briala? The elf?”

“She has formed the elves of Orlais, or many of them, at least, into a fairly strong coalition. Underground, naturally, as no one would countenance a real elven army.”

“The very idea would throw Orlesians into a panic,” Josephine agreed.

“Or members of any nation, for that matter.” Cullen shook his head. “This fear of an elven uprising is something to be aware of—especially with the mages already having done so.” He looked up at Bridget. “Forgive me.”

“No, you’re very right. The mages rose up from the Circles, and no doubt that’s given the elves something to think about. Their position in Thedas is not a happy one.” Bridget sighed. Just what she needed, one more worry.

“I don’t believe the elves at Halamshiral will be planning an uprising, not with Briala trying to negotiate for them,” Leliana said. “It’s possible, but it would be foolish and short-sighted, and Briala is neither of those things.”

“You knew her?”

“In a former life. She and Celene …” Leliana paused delicately.

Josephine was unsurprised, but both Cullen and Bridget turned to stare at the spymaster. “The Empress and an elf?” Bridget asked.

“Indeed. And the Empress has invited her to the negotiations in order to secure the elves’ cooperation in her war with Gaspard, which is certain to make the nobles anxious and uncomfortable, tipping any so inclined closer to allying with Corypheus. Meanwhile, Briala has a network of saboteurs at her command and may be considered to be nursing a personal grudge against Celene for … dropping her, shall we say. Also a promising lead.”

Josephine said, “It is worth considering that Celene has yet to name an heir, which leaves Gaspard as the next in line. He may well be considering taking by succession what he has yet to succeed in taking by force.”

“In all this, we are wise to remember that Celene has been the subject of a number of assassination plots during the years she’s been on the throne. She is skilled at protecting herself, even has some ability with a blade—“

Cullen interrupted Leliana to say, “Moderate ability.”

“Yes, but better than nothing. On the other hand, the Empress is surrounded at all times by countless guards, courtiers, servants, and vassals, any one of whom might be vulnerable to pressure of one kind or another.”

Bridget groaned, rubbing her forehead. “How am I going to keep all this straight?”

“Do not worry, Inquisitor,” Josephine assured her. “We have discussed it, and we all intend to accompany you.”

“Oh, thank the Maker. And thank you!”

Cullen nodded. “It seems the wisest course. But I am not wearing a mask. Or those ridiculous clothes!”

“But Commander, you would look so pretty in them!” Leliana’s eyes twinkled, and Cullen flushed all the way up to his hairline. She chuckled. “In all seriousness, Josephine and I feel that it would be best if we all wear the Inquisition uniform. It would be difficult to procure clothing that would be appropriate to the occasion in time, and the uniforms are more practical should the Inquisitor find herself having to resort to physical activity beyond the dance floor in her search for Corypheus’s agent.”

“Thank the Maker,” Cullen said fervently in his turn, and all the women laughed.

“Have you considered who will accompany you, Inquisitor?” Josephine asked.

“Vivienne,” Bridget said unhesitatingly. “With her contacts, I think she can help smooth the waters.”

“As long as she does not have her own agenda,” Josephine cautioned.

“Even if she does, she has enough invested in the Inquisition that I do not think she will harm our purpose—and she does not want Corypheus to succeed in Orlais. No, I think she will be an excellent addition to the party,” Leliana said. “Who else?”

“I thought Varric would be useful.”

“He will certainly charm the company,” Cullen said, “and I understand his books are very popular in Orlais, but how can he conceal his weapon?” 

Josephine shook her head. “He doesn’t need to. Bianca is part of the package—everyone will expect him to bring the crossbow. Even Celene may want to see it.”

“And Blackwall,” Bridget finished.

Josephine and Leliana exchanged concerned looks.

“What?”

“It … after you pardoned the Wardens for their actions, bringing a Warden with you, and one with whom you are in an open relationship … I worry that it makes you seem biased in the direction of the Wardens.”

“Who are hardly at their most popular at the moment,” Josephine added.

“Not to mention that Blackwall hardly seems the type to be comfortable in a ballroom,” Cullen pointed out.

Leliana glanced at him and seemed to be about to speak, then looked at Bridget and appeared to think better of it.

“I trust him,” Bridget said simply. “He won’t let anything happen to me.” 

“He is the finest fighter we have,” Leliana agreed, but her eyes rested on Bridget with worry nevertheless.

Cullen smiled. “Don’t let Cassandra hear you say that.”

“She’s very good, but not quite as good. And she would rather be hung upside down by her heels than be dragged to Halamshiral. The Iron Bull would go—“ She looked at Bridget questioningly.

“I … like the Iron Bull, but I’m not sure I trust him.”

“Very well, Blackwall it is,” Josephine said briskly, marking it down on her writing board.

They adjourned shortly after that, Bridget with a closely written schedule in her hand from Josephine detailing all the time they intended to spend with her teaching her everything she needed to know for the ball. The next ten days looked to be exhausting ones. She was glad she had Blackwall and dancing lessons to look forward to every night.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Blackwall could have kicked himself for allowing Bridget to talk him into accompanying her to the ball. What had he been thinking? How could he present himself in front of the nobility of Orlais and not expect at least one to remember Thom Rainier? He was still a wanted man. If he were recognized, he would be jailed, and that would ruin the reputation of the Inquisition … to say nothing of the way it would break Bridget’s heart. 

He had to tell her. He had to. He couldn’t wait any longer.

But how could he? He remembered the way her blue eyes had looked when she asked him to come with her. She needed him there—she had said so. She was doing a very hard thing, for her especially, and she needed to do it well if she were to keep Thedas safe from Corypheus yet again. Did he have the right to destroy her trust in him and put her on edge just before she went off to the ball?

He looked at the carved fennec taking shape beneath his knife. If only he had stayed in the wilderness, safely removed from all of this, never joined the Inquisition, never met her—

Then he remembered her last night, the feel of her, the way she had looked in the throes of her pleasure atop him … the trusting way she had slept in his arms. He had never dreamed of such happiness in all his life. Thom Rainier had been out for what he could get from every moment, never thinking ahead or looking for anything that could last. But Blackwall—Blackwall knew what he had, and he treasured it, and he wanted to keep it for the rest of his life. That would be too much to ask, he knew, but he wanted to keep it—keep her—for as long as he could. And if that meant bearding the lions of Orlais in their dens, trusting to his own beard to keep him hidden from curious eyes, then that was what he would do. 

Maker help him.


	30. Last-Minute Jitters

Bridget stood up from behind a half-packed trunk, rubbing a hand over her face. “I don’t know why I ever started this on my own. I don’t know what to bring. I should have just waited for Josephine like she told me to … but I didn’t want to waste her time.”

His own minimal packing long since finished, Blackwall looked up from the book he was reading. “It’s her job.” He was grateful for the decision that they would all wear Inquisition uniforms to the ball. In a uniform that looked just like the ones being worn by the rest of their party, everyone would see him as just another member of the Inquisition. It would be far less likely that anyone would connect him with Thom Rainier. Thom Rainier would never have worn a uniform when he could wear ostentatious finery, anyway. He stroked his beard, smiling a little. Thom Rainier would never have been caught with such a wild, unruly amount of facial hair, either.

Bridget’s sigh brought his attention back to her. “I know it’s her job. But she already does so much, I hate to add to her responsibilities.”

Blackwall got to his feet and crossed to her, taking her into his arms. “There are other people around Skyhold who do more than they have time for, too, may I remind you.” Before she could start naming them off he looked down into her face, sternly clarifying, “By which I mean you.”

“Oh.” She flushed, as she always did when praised for her work. “But that’s different. Josephine has an important job here. Me, I’m only needed, strictly speaking, for closing the rifts. Otherwise, I just do what I can to help.”

Several rounds of this line of conversation had taught him not to argue with her. Instead, he stroked her cheek. “In this case, you’re helping by giving Josephine the peace of mind that comes with knowing you have everything you need to represent the Inquisition the way she, and the Orlesians, expect you to.”

“It makes sense when you put it that way. Thank you.” She looked up at him, her blue eyes wide and worried. “Blackwall?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“I’m terrified.”

“I know.” He held her close, not wanting her to see his own particular fear in his eyes.

“Are you terrified?”

“Would it help if I said yes?”

“Yes.” Then, after a pause. “No. Maybe?”

He smiled. “Then maybe I am—and maybe I’m not.”

Bridget chuckled against his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re coming with me. I’m not sure I could have done it without you.”

His heart warmed at the words, even as they sent a chill of fear through him. What if he was caught? Did her need to have him with her for this ball, when she could get by just as well with the guidance of Josephine and Leliana, outweigh his value to her in the field? Was he jeopardizing their mission by taking the risk that the Inquisition be found harboring a wanted criminal? He should stay at Skyhold, safely outside the borders of Orlais. He had no right to take chances with his freedom.

He tilted her chin up with his fingers, looking her in the eye. “You could if you needed to.”

Bridget’s eyes widened. “But I don’t have to. Right? Blackwall, please. I—I can’t walk into that ballroom with the weight of everyone’s expectations on me without—without knowing you’re there. You’re the only one who knows how scared I am, the only one who can know.”

“Of course you don’t have to. I’ll go with you wherever you need me. Into the Void, if necessary.” He smiled gently, hoping she couldn’t tell that asking him to go to the Winter Palace carried infinitely more dangers to him than asking him to accompany her into the Void. For that matter, the Fade had been easier to handle.

Her face brightened in relief. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you, my lady.”   
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
A knock came at the door at the bottom of the stairs, and with a quick kiss, Bridget disentangled herself from him, hurrying to open it. 

Josephine came upstairs, looking cool and collected and perfectly turned out. Only because Bridget had come to know her so well could she see how harried her Ambassador was.

She stopped and looked down into the trunk. “Oh. You’ve begun already.”

“Yes, I wanted to save you some time … but I stopped,” she added hastily as Josephine blanched. “I was sure everything I was taking was all wrong, so I left off.”

“I think we can manage fairly quickly together, Inquisitor,” Josephine assured her. “But I thank you for thinking of me.” She glanced at Blackwall. “You received your uniform?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“How was the fit? I was concerned that the tailors—“

“It’s very nice,” he assured her. 

“I was just talking him out of his last-minute jitters,” Bridget said. She cast a sidelong glance at Blackwall, smiling, hoping he wouldn’t tell Josephine that the true jitters had been hers.

“What is it with these men?” Josephine asked. She put her clipboard down and knelt in front of Bridget’s trunk, lifting things out and laying them in careful piles around her. “I just had to convince Cullen that we actually need our general to be present at this event. Varric, on the other hand …” She chuckled. “He’s primarily concerned that the uniform will cramp his style.”

“I can’t imagine him letting anything do that.” Bridget sighed. “I suppose you and Leliana and Vivienne are all prepared.”

Josephine got to her feet and came to Bridget, taking her hands and looking earnestly into her face. “My dear, you must remember that we have all been to these events many times. We are completely aware that this is your first time, and that the expectations on your shoulders will be … extraordinary. Please, you must consider us your allies and your support.”

“I just don’t want to let you down,” Bridget admitted.

“Inquisitor, many people at the ball will be watching you and judging your every action—but none of them will be wearing an Inquisition uniform. Each of us who accompany you are there to smooth your way and help you do your job to the utmost of your ability. Will you trust that to be true?”

Bridget nodded, grateful for Josephine’s assurance. “I’ll try.”

“Well, we can ask no more than that.” Briskly, Josephine added, “Shall we begin?”

Under Josephine’s expert eye, the packing went far more quickly than Bridget had imagined it might. She could tell that the Ambassador was holding herself back from the flood of final reminders of how to behave and whom to speak with and how to approach them, all the little details, that she wanted to issue. Bridget was sure there would be plenty of those on the journey to Halamshiral, but for these last moments here in Skyhold, she was glad to just be allowed to breathe and not be reminded of all the things she should be worried about.

There was one final dance lesson with Blackwall that night, a lesson that ended with him peeling off her clothes and caressing every inch of her body, slowly building her pleasure until she was desperate for the feel of him inside her. Afterward, as they lay entwined in her bed, he held her close, kissing her face tenderly. “My lady, I—“

“What is it?” she asked sleepily when he didn’t continue.

“I … I wish I could lie here in this bed with you forever,” he said at last.

“Mm. Me, too,” Bridget agreed, thinking he was as reluctant as she was to take the journey ahead of them. She snuggled her head closer into his shoulder and fell asleep.

Morning came all too early, Bridget hastily downing a cup of tea in the main keep and then waiting for it to settle so she wouldn’t have to ask everyone to stop just for the needs of her bladder. After some debate whether it would produce a better reaction if she arrived in a coach or on horseback, the decision had been made that they would all ride. Less impressive, perhaps, but as Leliana and Cullen had argued, the Inquisition didn’t own an equipage grand enough to make the right impression, and arriving in Halamshiral on horseback would remind Orlais that Bridget continued to be active in the field on behalf of their countrymen and –women.The most vocally disappointed among them was Varric, who disliked riding because he ended up either on a pony that couldn’t keep up with the larger horses, or on a horse so large in proportion to himself that he felt ridiculous. In the interests of time, he was going with the larger horse for this journey, and Bridget was prepared for the stream of complaints that would no doubt be forthcoming.

It was a relief to be underway, to be out on a horse in the fresh clear mountain air. If she didn’t think about the ultimate destination, if she ignored the presence of her three advisors and the numerous outriders they had brought, she could imagine this was just another expedition to close some rifts and deal with some Red Templars.

They were a rather large party, she noted. A number of their people had gone ahead, but there were quite a few additional soldiers and scouts along to protect the Inquisition leadership on the road and to maintain what Josephine considered to be the minimum amount of staff required to represent the Inquisition’s size and importance. She and Leliana had had a heated argument about it, but finally the Spymaster had thrown up her hands and stalked off, leaving Josephine the victor.

Bridget didn’t mind the extra people. Talking to them helped her keep a finger on the pulse of the Inquisition and it kept her mind off of what lay ahead of her, the dancing and the politics and the people and, oh, yes, the assassin out to kill the Empress of Orlais.

Blackwall rode next to her, largely silent unless asked a direct question. While he was often quiet while traveling, watching the sides of the road for signs of a potential ambush, this felt different. 

She nudged her horse up next to his, looking at his face. His blue eyes were far away, looking away over the mountains and beyond. “Are you all right?”

He drew himself back with an effort. “Fine, yes. Thank you for asking. Just … tired.” He smiled at her, his eyes warming with the memory of what had kept them both up so late.

Bridget chuckled. “You’re not the only one.”

“Oh, I know.” But he couldn’t hold her gaze, his eyes seeking the horizon again.

She felt a chill work its way through her. “Blackwall?”

“Yes?” he said absently, his thoughts elsewhere.

“Do you miss it?”

“Do I miss what?”

“Being … out there. Alone in the wilderness, free to … go where you like and do as you pleased.” She stumbled over the words, afraid she had hit on what it was that he wouldn’t say to her. It wasn’t the first time she had noticed a hesitation in him, a distraction.

He looked at her sharply. “Do I—?” He caught himself, thinking about it. Then he nodded, slowly, as though it was a new idea to him. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

“Oh.” She swallowed. “Do you—would you want to go, then?”

“Not … at present.” He reached for her hand, squeezing it reassuringly. “I have no intention of leaving you, my lady, not if I can help it.”

Bridget wondered what could happen to make him not be able to help it, but the warmth of his hand on hers, the warmth of his eyes as they looked into hers, were so sure and so real that she couldn’t disbelieve him. “Good. Because I have no intention of letting you go.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”


	31. Treacherous Waters

Bridget wasn’t ready. Her uniform was buttoned, her hair was done—in its usual braid and twist, nothing fancy. They had deliberated about the style, but not knowing what she would be called upon to do in the pursuit of the assassin, had decided simplest was best. So she looked ready … but she didn’t feel it. Truthfully, she couldn’t imagine ever feeling ready.

If Josephine, usually so unflappable, didn’t seem so nervous, Bridget thought maybe she could let her fears settle. But Josephine was flitting around making minute adjustments to everyone’s uniform, writing last-minute notes on her board, giving Bridget rapid-fire instructions in an accent so thickened Bridget was hard put to understand half of it.

Leliana finally caught her by the shoulders. “Josie. They’re not going to have us imprisoned and executed if Blackwall’s sash isn’t straight.”

Blackwall let out a strangled noise that to Bridget sounded as though he almost believed Leliana’s scenario was possible. She reached for his hand and squeezed it and was surprised not to feel an answering squeeze. He must be more nervous than she’d imagined. And here she had been counting on him to be her rock as she navigated these treacherous waters! She glanced at him, shaking their joined hands a little. “You all right?”

“Fine. Just anxious to get started.”

“You’re not alone,” Cullen said. “Josephine, isn’t that the carriages I hear outside?”

She looked up from Varric’s sleeve, pulling an infinitesimal speck of lint off it. “Oh! It does sound like them, doesn’t it?”

“Then can we go?” There was barely controlled impatience in Cullen’s voice.

“By all means.”

There was some jockeying for position in the carriages. Josephine had very much wanted Bridget to ride with herself, Cullen, and Leliana, no doubt to receive a great deal of last-minute advice. To Bridget’s relief, Blackwall refused to let go of her hand, so she found herself with Blackwall, Varric, and Cullen, instead. She hoped the other three ladies enjoyed each other’s company on the ride over. Vivienne had been very silent about this evening; Bridget had no idea if the mage had her own agendas for the ball or not—and she didn’t care, as long as Vivienne was available when she was needed.

The ride over was entertaining, Varric exerting himself to be his most charming in order to counteract everyone’s nerves. He seemed the least affected by the grandeur of the occasion, and Bridget smiled at him affectionately. Dear Varric, at home everywhere from the seediest bars to the Empress’s palace. She was very glad to have brought him.

At last the carriage rolled to a stop, and a liveried servant opened the door. Bridget climbed out first, accepting the servant’s hand to help her down because it seemed to be expected of her. Over his shoulder, she caught Josephine’s approving glance.

Josephine took Bridget’s arm as they approached the Palace. “Remember,” she said in a rapid whisper. “The political situation here hangs by a thread. Tonight is about treaty negotiations between Gaspard and Celene, and the Empress is very concerned that our presence here might jeopardize the already shaky peace among her people.”

“Then why is she letting us come?” Bridget asked. She knew all of this, or she thought she did, but a quick refresher couldn’t hurt, and it would make Josephine happy. 

“On sufferance. We are Grand Duke Gaspard’s guests. He was only too happy to invite us. It took very little nudging.” Josephine smiled.

“Why does he want us here when Celene doesn’t?”

“Because we allow him to gain an opportunity—we could conceivably be convinced to act as his allies, which strengthens his position, or we merely upset the balance ofpower, leaving a space for him to move into. Either way, we offer the potential for him to improve his position.”

The soldiers flanking them had moved ahead now, entering through the gates. Josephine let go of Bridget’s arm and stepped back, making it clear that Bridget was to enter alone. She was the Inquisitor, after all, even if she was suddenly not feeling very Inquisitorial.

Josephine was behind her, she knew, and behind Josephine Cullen and Blackwall and the others, but as the soldiers stopped and turned sharply to create a passage for her, she felt very alone, very singled out and vulnerable. It suddenly occurred to her—everyone here would know she was a mage. She would be an easy target for anyone who thought a mage had no business heading the Inquisition, and there were many who felt that way.

A masked man came toward her. Everyone at the ball was wearing masks, she could see, now that she was amongst the guests. She was glad Josephine hadn’t asked that the Inquisition party wear them; this was going to be a difficult enough night without her field of vision constricted by a mask.

This particular masked man in front of her was wearing a shiny, elegant, perhaps a bit overcomplicated set of armor. He must be Duke Gaspard, she thought.

The rest of the guests had shrunk back a bit, no one wanting to be the first to approach the upstarts from the Inquisition, no doubt. But Gaspard walked toward Bridget freely, without a moment’s hesitation.

“Inquisitor Trevelyan! It is an honor to meet you at last.”

“The honor is mine—“ Suddenly the proper form of address for the Grand Duke had fled entirely from Bridget’s mind. She searched her memory frantically for it, and when she couldn’t remember, simply bowed.

He nodded in response, gesturing for her to walk with him. The other guests parted to make way for them, and Bridget could hear whispers following in her wake, although not what was being said. 

She was trying to pay attention to the Grand Duke, anyway, who was saying, “The rumors comg from the Western Approach say you battled an army of demons.”

“Yes.”

“Impressive.” He tilted his head in her direction, saying more softly, “If you can do that, imagine what you could accomplish with the full support of the rightful Emperor of Orlais.”

Since Bridget’s advisors were split on which side they felt comfortable supporting in this argument, they had asked her to avoid committing herself as best she could. “I can see many benefits to such an alliance,” she said carefully.

“In that case, keep the image firmly in your mind. We may be able to bring it to life before the end of the evening.”

Bridget glanced sharply at him, wishing she could see beneath the mask. Was he plotting Celene’s murder? It made sense. Although, if he was intending to gain the throne by murder, why would he have cost himself so many men on the battlefields?

“I am not a man who forgets his friends, Inquisitor,” Gaspard continued. “You help me, I’ll help you.”

The implication in the reverse seemed clear, as well. Fortunately, they had reached the bottom of a set of wide white marble steps that curved up toward the main ballroom. 

“My lady.” Gaspard bowed before her. Bridget couldn’t help comparing him to Blackwall, whose gruff “my lady” never failed to touch her. Gaspard added, “Are you prepared to shock the court by walking into the Grand Ball with a hateful usurper? They will tell stories of it into the next age.”

Bridget devoutly hoped not. But Leliana had whispered to her that Gaspard liked audacity and playfulness. Those weren’t native to Bridget’s character, but for the Inquisition, she would try. She smiled at the Grand Duke. “I can’t imagine that crowd has seen anything better than us in their entire lives.”

Bless Leliana. Gaspard laughed delightedly, holding his arm out to her. “Clearly, you are a woman after my own heart, my lady.” As she took his arm, he said softly, “Perhaps there is a matter you could help me look into this evening. This elven woman, Briala—I suspect she intends to disrupt the negotiations.”

“I’ll keep an eye on her,” Bridget promised. It was easily done, since she had intended to do so anyway. “As discreetly as possible, of course.”

“Of course.” Gaspard sighed. “Between you and me, I detest the Game … but one must play it and play it well, or else one’s enemies gain too great an advantage. We don’t want to look like villains, do we, my lady?”

“We certainly do not,” she agreed.

They both paused in front of the gates, liveried men bowing before them as they hastened to swing the gates open.

Gaspard glanced at Bridget. “We are keeping the Court waiting, Inquisitor. Shall we?”

She smiled at him. “We shall.”  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Blackwall hated watching Bridget on the arm of that poncy peacock. He had worried so much about how he would manage this ball without the ghost of Thom Rainier haunting him that he had never considered the torture of watching his beautiful lady be paraded around and ogled by the Orlesian nobility.

It was almost a relief when the gates closed behind Bridget and Grand Duke Gaspard, leaving Blackwall and the others in the gardens for the moment. They would all be formally announced in a little while, but for now he preferred to remain outside in the cool of the evening. He would be stuck in the overly perfumed heated air of the ballroom soon enough.

Behind him, he heard two people murmuring together about the battlefields. One said that he had heard the bodies were “beyond counting”. Blackwall smothered a grim smile, not at the carnage, but at the idea of a fancily-dressed popinjay like that ever beholding such carnage himself. They liked to talk about the soldiers at these events, but few of them could handle real battle.

The companion of the first man replied softly, “Surely the Empress will put an end to the war tonight.”

“Pray, my friend,” the first voice replied. “If the Maker does not hear us now … just pray.”

That, at least, was a sentiment Blackwall heartily agreed with. He hadn’t had much contact with the Maker in some time, but on the journey here he had relearned how to pray. Not for himself; whatever came to him, he richly deserved. But for Bridget, who didn’t deserve to have her heart broken. He prayed it wouldn’t have to be.

“Warden Blackwall, is it?” A woman in a deep purple gown came up to him, waving a fan in front of her face. “You must be! I had heard about your …” She dropped her gaze to his beard, and flushed. 

“Warden Blackwall, at your service, your ladyship.”

“Oh, aren’t you gallant?” The fan moved faster. “Do tell me about the Grey Wardens. What are they like?”

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes only by an instant. “Well, I’m afraid we’re less exciting than we seem.”

“I’m sure that’s not true!” She slipped an arm through his. 

Blackwall remembered the days when fruit like this fell into Thom Rainier’s lap this way all the time. He had plucked and tasted and thrown away with abandon. How cheap it all seemed now, compared to the love of a woman like Bridget. She could never have loved Thom Rainier.

The woman on his arm giggled at him. “Tell me all about yourself, Warden. Do I call you Warden?”

“If you like. I’m certain I have no stories that would entertain a lady like you.”

“Are you Orlesian? You … sound Orlesian.” She said it rather doubtfully. 

Considering how hard he had worked to take any trace of Orlesian accent out of his voice, he hoped it was wishful thinking on her part. “I’m afraid not. Marcher.”

“Marcher? Like the … Inquisitor?”

“Yes, although she’s from Ostwick and I’m from Markham.”

The fan moved rapidly as the lady tried to pretend she knew the difference. At last she gave up. “Oh. I’ve never been there.”

He didn’t insult her by asking which one. “That was a long time ago, your ladyship. Another life.”

“So mysterious! Do tell.”

“I’m sad to disappoint you, your ladyship. I was born in Markham, joined the Grey Wardens, came to Ferelden, and eventually joined the Inquisition. A simple story; nothing mysterious about it.”

“So you say, but I’m sure there’s mystery about you, and I’m going to find out what it is.” She tapped him on the shoulder and hurried off, still giggling.

Blackwall hoped she might trip on her ridiculously high heels and break something and have to go home, but she didn’t. He turned as he heard the Inquisition called; it was time to enter the ball.


	32. Navigating the Ballroom

Inside the grand doors, Blackwall found Bridget fidgeting with her gloves as Josephine hovered next to her, whispering in her ear. Bridget’s face brightened at the sight of Blackwall, and his heart sank even as it lifted—a complicated maneuver he hadn’t imagined was possible. 

Bridget came to him, reaching for his hand, clutching it tightly. “Talk me down, Blackwall,” she whispered. “Is the Orlesian court really as deadly as Josephine says?”

It was, and in more ways than one. “They’ll be watching you,” he said carefully,” weighing every word, and every gesture. They expect you to be an uneducated bumpkin, so you’ll gain points by being the cultured and intelligent lady I know you to be; they’ll expect you to be a dangerous mage, but they are titillated by that fear, so you’ll want to walk a fine line between being reasonable and not voraciously in favor of mage’s rights … and being just a little unleashed and potentially scary.”

“Am I unleashed and potentially scary?” she asked anxiously.

He considered making a reference to the bedroom, but this wasn’t the time to distract her, even if she could have used a moment of light-heartedness. “Only on the battlefield, my lady,” he said instead. “Treat them as warily as if Corypheus were right in front of you, and you should find the right balance easily enough.”

She nodded, her forehead wrinkling as she considered that advice. “I can do that, I think. Thank you, Blackwall.”

“Don’t tell them too much, be polite and complimentary and noncommittal … but stand your ground, as well. Don’t let them think you’re a pushover.”

Bridget let out a long breath, slowly. “All right. I think I’m ready.”

She moved on ahead, joining Grand Duke Gaspard.

“I told her all those things!” Josephine said. “Why did they only make her more nervous when I said them?”

Leliana chuckled. “You told her it was Wicked Grace played to the death, Josie. All well and good for you, since we all know you’re unbeatable at Wicked Grace, but I don’t think it was quite the right metaphor for the Inquisitor.”

Blackwall made a mental note to teach Bridget all the Wicked Grace tricks he could remember when they got back to Skyhold—if they got back to Skyhold, whispered the Thom Rainier who still lurked in the back of his mind. He banished the voice by imagining Bridget playing strip Wicked Grace, which was a suitably distracting thought.

“You told her she was safer in the Fade with the Fear demon,” Cullen pointed out to Josephine.

“Well, she was!”

“Yes, but that was hardly advice calculated to build her confidence.”

“I’m just so nervous,” Josephine said, looking worriedly at Bridget, who was talking with Gaspard and two other nobles. “It’s nearly time to be introduced.”

“Everything’ll be fine, Ruffles. She’ll charm the court just like she charmed all of you,” Varric said. “Remember when you all wanted her executed?”

“Right. Everything will be fine,” Josephine repeated. She shivered, adding, “Andraste watch over us all.”

She and Cullen and Leliana moved on ahead, following Bridget and the Grand Duke toward the main doors that would lead into the ballroom. Blackwall felt sickened at how familiar this all still was, even after all this time. How long until he made a mistake and revealed that he had been here before?

Next to him, Varric groaned and shook his head. “Shit. I just saw two dwarves from the Merchants Guild go inside. Do me a favor—if anyone asks, I’m not here.”

Blackwall pulled his thoughts away from his panic, glad for the distraction. He grinned at the dwarf. “I’ll be glad to, but I don’t think it’ll make much difference after your name is announced for all the company to hear.”

Varric groaned louder. “You think I can duck out of here before the introductions?”

“Not and still be available to the Inquisitor when you’re needed.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I guess I’ll just have to hang around by the food tables.”

“You don’t think the dwarves from the Merchants’ Guild will go near them?”

“Come on! No self-respecting dwarf comes to these things for the food.”

“What’s wrong with it?” 

“Too fancy. It’s all about how trendy it is, not about how it tastes.” Varric grimaced. “One time at a party I had this imported ham from the Anderfels that tasted like despair. Literally.”

“You probably got to wash it down with an expensive wine,” Blackwall pointed out. “Whatever they serve, it beats two-year-old hardtack.”

“How bad can that be?”

“Eventually, you can’t scrape off the blue anymore. You just have to try not to look.”

Varric frowned at him, then sighed as Josephine turned and gestured for them to hurry up. “Maybe I’ll get lucky and the representatives of the Merchants’ Guild will starve to death in the middle of the ball.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t last that long.” 

The main ballroom was filled with people, all of them turning to stare at the Inquisition, who stood out like sore thumbs in their matching red uniforms. Blackwall felt naked and exposed, and he wished for a mask.

Bridget was crossing the expanse of the dance floor now, as her name and titles and accomplishments were intoned for the room to hear. She was beautiful, so tall and elegant and poised. You would never know how nervous she was from watching her, or that she hadn’t been attending functions like these all her life. He hoped that watching her would be distracting enough that no one would even notice him.

The room was utterly silent as she walked, none of the nobles quite sure how to respond to her until they saw Celene’s reaction, and Celene stood in shadow so her face, even the part visible under the mask, was impossible to see.

Vivienne was announced next, to a murmur of welcome and approval; then Varric, to a somewhat louder murmur of his starstruck fans. Vivienne would not be pleased to have been upstaged by a dwarf, Blackwall thought, a smile twitching at his mouth.

It vanished immediately when Varric’s list of accomplishments was done, and he would have to go next. He was initially relieved at the brevity of his roll call. He had been hoping at least they had done enough research to unearth Blackwall’s first name, which he had completely forgotten, if he had ever known … but they had managed to discover that Blackwall had once earned the Silverite Wings of Valor, whatever Blighted award that might be. He cursed under his breath, even as he was walking across the room, his eyes fixed on Bridget’s face, so proud. Now he would have to make something up, for her if for no one else. One more lie to add to his conscience.

Yet again, he thought how unforgivable the deception he was practicing on her was … and how impossible to stop, as long as she looked at him the way she was looking at him now.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Bridget took her eyes off Blackwall with some difficulty as Leliana’s announcement ended, and it was clear she was expected to turn to make her obeisance to the Empress.

Gaspard took charge of that, approaching Celene with the ease of their familial relationship. “Cousin! My dear sister,” he added, nodding to the woman who appeared next to Celene as they both emerged from the shadows. Bridget suppressed a wild urge to look to Josephine to find out exactly who this might be, wondering why the ambassador hadn’t mentioned her.

“Grand Duke,” Celene was saying. “We are always honored when your presence graces our Court.”

“Don’t waste my time with pleasantries, Celene,” Gaspard snapped. “We have business to conclude.”

She shook her head. “So hasty, always, cousin. There is a time and a place. We will meet for negotiations after we have seen to our other guests.”

Gaspard made an elaborate—and Bridget suspected deliberately ridiculous—bow. He glanced at Bridget. “Inquisitor.” And then he stalked off into the crowd.

Bridget was panicked to realize that she stood alone in the center of the ballroom in front of the Empress, with the eyes of the entire Court of Orlais on her. _Breathe_ , she thought. _Breathe and smile_.

“Lady Inquisitor,” Celene said pleasantly, “welcome to the Winter Palace. Allow us to present our cousin, the Grand Duchess of Lydes, without whom this gathering would never have been possible.”

Transferring her smile to the Grand Duchess, Bridget filed away that piece of information. Wouldn’t have been possible? If you wanted to assassinate the Empress, organizing a ball might be a way to accomplish it. She added the Grand Duchess to her list of suspects.

The Grand Duchess gave a somewhat perfunctory curtsy. “What an unexpected surprise. I was not aware the Inquisition would be part of our festivities.” Her voice was chilly, and studiedly disinterested. “We will certainly speak later, Inquisitor,” she added, disappearing into the shadows behind Celene.

The Empress was smiling at Bridget, a smile that appeared genuine—at least she wasn’t going to be hostile, Bridget thought with relief. “Your arrival at Court is like a cool breeze on a summer’s day.”

_Noncommittal, casual, complimentary_ , Bridget reminded herself. “I am delighted to be here, Your Majesty.”

“We have heard much of your exploits, Inquisitor. They have made grand tales for long evenings.”

“Perhaps you will allow me to tell you some of my exploits later, then.”

“I would enjoy that, yes. In the meanwhile, feel free to enjoy the pleasures of the ballroom, Inquisitor.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Bridget bowed as Josephine had taught her.

The Empress nodded, and the introduction was over.

As soon as she was off the dance floor and out of the eye of the entirety of Orlais, Bridget sought out Josephine, who was standing with a young woman in a very fancy dress.

“Tell me, Yvette, how are Mama and Papa? Are they in good health? Do they want for anything?” Josephine was asking as Bridget joined them.

The other young lady, evidently her sister, replied, “Papa’s perfectly happy in the studio.” Her mouth turned down in a studied pout. “ _Mother_ is the same as always.”

Josephine smiled indulgently. “Meaning she is after you to do more work.”

The sister’s pout deepened. “You always take her side!”

“I do not ‘take her side’. I happen to think, as she does, that you might attend to more of the estate’s duties.”

“And give up my art?”

Josephine rolled her eyes, and the two sisters stood glaring at each other before Bridget, amused, cleared her throat.

“Oh! Inquisitor, my apologies. Little sisters can be so trying,” Josephine said. 

“Inquisitor! Josephine, is this her?” The other Montilyet sister was looking Bridget up and down with avid curiosity.

“Yes. Inquisitor, please allow me to present to you my younger sister, Yvette Gabriella Montiyet.”

Bridget and Yvette exchanged bows. Yvette giggled. “I have heard so much about you—but not as much as I want. Josephine can be so … discreet.” The pout made another appearance. 

“So tedious of me, I know,” Josephine agreed. 

“Tell me, Inquisitor, is it true that the rebel mages in Redcliffe were performing blood rites and orgies before you stopped them?”

Bridget’s eyebrows flew up in surprise, even as Josephine scoffed, “Where did you hear such nonsense?”

“Everyone in Antiva says so! Is it true?” Yvette repeated eagerly.

Thinking of what had actually occurred at Redcliffe, the nightmare future that still haunted her, Bridget shook her head. “Of course not.”

“Oh.” Yvette subsided, the pout even more in evidence. “How dull Redcliffe must have been, then.”

Bridget wished it had been dull. Not wanting to talk about Redcliffe any further, she asked if Yvette were enjoying the ball.

Waving her fan, Yvette nodded. “The dancing is so dull … but the Empress’s gallery magnificent!”

“Yvette …” Josephine said warningly.

“Sorry, Josie.”

“This may be my only opportunity to learn about what Josephine was like as a girl,” Bridget said, smiling at her Ambassador. “Do you have any stories?”

Oblivious to Josephine’s protests, Yvette said, “Oh, yes! Has she told you about when she was ten and—“

“Yvette. Stop.”

“Fine. Ooh, what about when we were climbing the cliffs by the—“

“No.”

“She once told the Duke of—“

Josephine put her hands on her hips. “Absolutely not.”

Yvette scowled. “She still plays with her doll collection when no one is looking,” she said quickly, and hurried off before Josephine could remonstrate with her.

Josephine sighed, watching her sister go. “I love her, but she is impossibly spoiled.” She shook her head, then looked more closely at Bridget. “You did quite well with the Empress.”

“Thank you.”

“Now, you cannot remain here or we will learn nothing. Just remember what I’ve told you, and you’ll do fine.”

“Of course,” Bridget agreed, not wanting to admit that she had forgotten half of what Josephine had told her. She drifted through the groups of nobles, listening idly to their conversations. Leliana had asked her to report any secrets she might hear, possibly as a method of forcing Bridget to pay more attention to the nobles, Bridget suspected.

A nobleman watched her walk past, and whispered loudly to his companion, “Can you believe the Inquisition has filled its ranks with apostates? You just know that will end badly.”

Bridget would have loved to have argued with him, but this really wasn’t the time … and one never really won an argument of that nature, anyway.

Vivienne caught up to her, casting a chilly glare at the nobleman, who hastily melted back into the crowd. “So wise, my dear,” Vivienne said. “It never does to engage with the uneducated that way.” She looked Bridget over with a critical eye. “You haven’t embarrassed yourself—or the rest of us—as much I feared you might. Well done.”

Used to the other mage’s manner of speech by now, Bridget took the compliment for what it was. “Thank you. I’m doing my best.”

“Indeed.”

“Any words of wisdom for navigating the ballroom?”

Vivienne tilted her head to the side, considering. “Speak to the Council of Heralds. Six of them are here tonight. They are among the highest ranking players of the Game—they see everything. They may well know something we can use.”

“Which ones are they?”

“They willl be closeted together, speaking in very important whispers.” Bridget frowned, looking around her, and Vivienne laughed. “I know, that appears to describe everyone, but I promise you will know the difference when you see it.” The humor faded from her face, and she looked at Bridget intently. “Do keep an eye out for Celene’s pet apostate. I’ve no doubt she’s involved in this.”

“That isn’t professional rivalry?”

“My dear. No. When you see her you will understand—there is nothing professional about her.” Vivienne looked around her as they came to the door of the ballroom, and took in a deep breath, as if drinking in the scene.

“You enjoy this.”

“But of course! This is the Game, Inquisitor. Of course I enjoy it.” She gave Bridget a brief smile. “If I didn’t, I would be dead by now.”

And she glided away, her lovely smile in evidence as she greeted the people she passed.

Bridget, left alone, went looking for the Council of Heralds. She heard of them before she saw them, however. A group of dwarves standing near a window was speculating whether Gaspard could take the throne without the support of the Council, which apparently he didn’t have. The dwarves determined that what he couldn’t take through more approved channels, he would take by force, marching on the Council if they wouldn’t see things his way. She considered that, whether it changed her overall view of Gaspard. He was a man who would rather batter his way to what he wanted on the field than take it through the subtlety of the Game—but was assassination subtlety or a frontal assault? It depended on how it was done. Here at the ball, Bridget thought it was more subtlety than suited Gaspard … but apparently the Grand Duchess Florianne was his sister. If the two of them were working together, Florianne seemed more than subtle enough to make up for Gaspard’s shortcomings.

A very harried man in a very ridiculous hat came rushing up to her. “Have you seen Philippe?”

“No.”

“Ah.” The man hissed in anger. “He should have returned hours ago! No doubt dallying with some serving girl while I deal with Gaspard’s vitriol.”

His outraged face seemed to demand a response from her. While she would have loved to have asked what he had done to anger Gaspard, she remembered the advice the Iron Bull had given her about the occasional application of audacity. So she shook her head. “Awfully selfish of Philippe, running off to play and leaving you with all of the work.”

The man nodded, relieved that she agreed with him. “Tonight of all nights, too, leaving me to convey Gaspard’s death threats to the Council! Wonderful timing, Philippe.” He drew himself up and bowed to Bridget. “Thank you for listening to me rant. You are too kind, Inquisitor.”

“My pleasure.”

He hurried off, leaving her to wonder. If Gaspard was threatening the Council with death, it didn’t sound as though he had Celene’s assassination in his pocket. Or was he covering all his bases? It was hard to say.

Two women went by, speaking loudly, seeming unaware of Bridget’s presence, as one of them said, “What was Gaspard doing with the Inquisition? He’s never struck me as pious.”

“He must think he gains a military advantange.”

“Does Gaspard know any other kind?” the first one retorted, and they both giggled.

A small man, shorter than Bridget, older and wizened, came up to her and looped his arm through hers, propelling her forward with his momentum. “Well, well. The Inquisitor. And here as a guest of my nephew, no less. How curious.”

“It was kind of him to invite us.”

The little man laughed. “How refreshing. Kind! Gaspard? No, he wants something. Trust me on that.” He sighed deeply. “He was always a difficult child, so willful. Never listened, never did what he was told.”

Bridget could see that. 

“Then again—he was raised as a prince. All his life, we told him he would be Emperor. This it was his destiny, his duty. Can we be surprised now that he believed us? After all, what else should a man do with his life, if not fight for his destiny?” He squeezed her arm. “Or a woman, either.”

“Yes. That’s a good point.” Bridget wondered if she was fighting for her destiny. Was the Inquisition her destiny? Or was it simply how she fought in order to get to it? Shaking her head a little, she reminded herself why she was here. “Have you noticed anything strange this evening?”

“It’s the Winter Palace. What isn’t strange?” He laughed again, then frowned. “But come to think of it, my niece Florianne hasn’t spoken to me all evening. That’s not like her.”

Florianne again. That name kept coming up. Bridget decided she needed to know more about Florianne and where she fit into all of this—and why none of her advisors had thought to mention her.


	33. Enemies Abound

Blackwall tried to be unobtrusive, to blend into the crowd and act as though he was nothing interesting to see, but he hadn’t considered the Orlesian interest in the Inquisition in general and Bridget in specific. People kept stopping him to ask questions, and even though he answered as briefly as he could, still his heart pounded after every interaction. It had been such a mistake to allow Bridget to talk him into coming. After all, she was doing fine on her own, mingling with the nobility. She hadn’t needed him, he told himself.

A nobleman accosted him, full of questions about Skyhold, which Blackwall answered with as little enthusiasm as he could show and still be within the bounds of politeness. He had no wish to be on the receiving end of Josephine’s displeasure, as keyed up as she was over this event.

The noble was looking at him quizzically, dark eyes narrowing behind his mask. “You look very familiar, sir. Surely … Lady Fresse’s garden party?”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken. I’ve never been to a garden party, or heard of Lady Fresse.” The latter was a true, the first a falsehood. But Blackwall’s last garden party had been long years ago. Surely he couldn’t be recognized after such a long time, he thought.

“No?” the noble repeated, doubtfully. “Ah! I have it. Lord Rudalt de Lancre—I have seen you in his company before, no?”

Blackwall remembered a de Lancre, but he had been aged, a cantankerous old man who still thought himself a general. This must be a relative, whom thankfully he didn’t know. He shook his head. “I do not believe we’ve met, my lord. I’m just a Grey Warden,” he added, hoping that would close off the line of questioning.

“A Grey Warden? Odd. Your face is so familiar.” The noble frowned. “Perhaps it’s just the lack of a mask.” He peered more closely at Blackwall’s face, and Blackwall willed himself not to flinch, or run. “Around the eyes, there. Yes. Perhaps without that beard …”

“I’ve worn this beard since I was old enough to grow one, my lord.” Another lie. Although the real Blackwall had been heavily bearded, so perhaps it was true for him, at least.

The noble snapped his fingers at a passing elf, who held out a tray of wine-glasses. Rather sulkily, Blackwall noticed. Usually those who served at the Winter Palace were better trained than to allow their emotions to show.

“More wine,” the noble said, quaffing a glass with satisfaction and taking another. “It will come to me, my friend,” he promised Blackwall, who devoutly hoped his ‘friend’ would pass out from too much wine long before he managed to cause trouble with some recognition, real or imagined.

“Well, you’re making friends, I see,” said a familiar voice behind him, and he turned in relief and pleasure to see Bridget approaching.

“Not as fast as you are.”

“Yes, it’s going better than I’d anticipated.”

“Then you should get back out there.”

Bridget shook her head. “I needed a breather. There are a lot of people here, and I … am not used to this.” She reached for his hand and clung to it. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Then so am I, my lady.” Even if they would both live to regret it later. “And I’m ready for anything, whenever you need me. Just give the word.”

She sighed. “What do you think about all this scheming and politics?”

Blackwall snorted. “I think I’d rather be anywhere else. At least in the Wilds, a bear might eat you, but he’ll be straightforward about it.”

“I’m not sure that would be a comfort to his meal while in progress.”

“Perhaps not.” He smiled. “Still … I’ll be happy when we’ve saved the Empress and gone back to where things make sense.”

“You don’t think we have any business getting involved in the negotiations?”

“I can’t say that I do. So Celene stole the throne, seduced her way to it—however she got it, she has it, and she’s done a good job with it, so I say leave her to it. She’s proven that she’s the perfect mix of strength, cunning, and grace that Orlais needs.” Thom Rainier’s trouble had all come from backing Gaspard against Celene—or being paid to do so, which was worse. Blackwall was all for Celene, and for staying out of Orlesian politics for the rest of his life. 

“And Gaspard?”

“Like crowning a bull,” he said, and instantly wished he hadn’t. How should he know that?

But Bridget appeared to see nothing amiss in what he’d said. She nodded, and stepped closer, her hand stealing around his arm, her body very near his. “So …” she said softly. “The Silverite Wings of Valor? Do tell. What did you get that for?”

Oh, by the Void. Of course she would want to know—but did it have to come up so quickly, before he’d had a chance to prepare a response? Caught flat-footed, he said lamely, “For … valor?”

Bridget raised her eyebrows. “Care to elaborate?”

“It was a long time ago. Back when we didn’t stop to boast about past victories when there was an assassin on the loose.”

Stung, she dropped her hand from his arm and stepped back. “I see.” In a more formal tone, she asked, “What’s the word? Have you seen anything worth noting?”

He told her about the sulky elf, with a word about why that was unusual, and she nodded. “I’ve heard others complaining about the service, as well. I’ll look into it. Anything else? Anyone I should question?”

“Why don’t you ask Josephine? I’m not well acquainted with Orlesian nobility,” he snapped, and instantly regretted it.

“Thank you for the advice. I hadn’t thought of that,” Bridget replied, the sarcasm dripping from her tone like icicles. She stalked off, her back stiff, before he could apologize, and he wanted to kick himself for letting his own issues make this harder for her. He set out to go find some elven servants, in order to try to make it up to her.

The more he watched, the more concerned he became. The elves were hiding in corners whispering, rudely brushing past guests … all things they would normally have been fired for. Or worse. Two of them went by him, and he followed, close enough to hear one whisper, “He hasn’t made the pickup. It’s been hours.”

The other replied, “He went into the servants’ wing. Nobody’s come out of there all night.”

“I’ll tell Briala we have a situation."

Briala? The elven ambassador? Well, that made sense—if anyone could rile up and embolden the elves, she could. But what were they to pick up, and why had no one come out of the servants’ wing?

He found another pair of elves in a corner, ostensibly serving slices of ham and bread and cheese, but they snatched the tray away as he came close to them, turning their backs as if they hadn’t seen him, whispering with one another.

“The package is in the guest wing. Upper floor.” 

“The one off the garden?”

The first one turned her head over her shoulder, saw him listening, and glared, so Blackwall moved off. Guest wing, now? The Inquisition party were going to have to absent themselves from the ball for quite some little time, it appeared. The nobility would notice, and they wouldn’t like it.

A couple of nobles in the garden were standing to the side, whispering, looking distressed. Blackwall wandered that way, around behind a pillar so he wouldn’t be seen.

“You must be mistaken.”

“No, I saw it,” insisted the second man. The voice was vaguely familiar to Blackwall, but he refused to get sidetracked by that, especially when the man continued, “I’m quite certain it was blood on the tiles.”

Blood. On a night when there was an assassin on the loose. That couldn’t be a coincidence.

The first noble clucked his tongue in annoyance. “If they are playing the Game, they are not doing it very well. You do not leave evidence—not if you play to win.”

“Perhaps they’re playing a different game. With Gaspard and that elf woman here, the only one playing to win was Celene.”

If Celene was having people killed, then was she truly in danger? Perhaps they had been lured here under false pretences. Blackwall sighed, wishing for a straightforward fight.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Bridget wasn’t allowed to fume over Blackwall’s inexplicable attitude for long. Shortly after she had stalked away from him, three ladies in identical dresses and masks floated in front of her, their hands raised like butterflies in front of their bodices. 

“My lady! My lady Inquisitor!”

They seemed to speak as one. At least, Bridget was hard put to tell which of them was speaking at a time. 

“May we have a word? It is very important.”

“Of course. I am at your service, ladies.”

They curtsyed as one, too. “The Empress has sent us with a message for you.”

“Does the Empress often send you with her messages?”

The three of them looked at one another, conferring silently, then back at Bridget, nodding. “You see, we wear the masks of House Valmont. They signify that we are public faces of the Empress.”

“In that case, I am honored, as always, to hear from Her Majesty.”

“Oh, she is the honored one, Inquisitor! Empress Celene is eager to assist the Herald of Andraste in her holy endeavor.”

Bridget had rather hoped the Herald of Andraste bit had been retired when she became Inquisitor, but apparently not. “How nice.”

Ignoring her vague remark, the ladies continued, “The Empress will pledge her full support to the Inquisition as soon as the usurper Gaspard is defeated.”

As prices went, it was fairly predictable—and understandable. But Bridget had no intention of committing herself, or the Inquisition, in this conversation. “That’s a generous offer."

“The Empress believes whole-heartedly that the Inquisition is our best hope for peace in these difficult times.”

Translated, Bridget assumed that meant Celene was more than happy to have someone else fight Corypheus so she didn’t have to. 

“She looks forward to cementing a formal alliance … as soon as Gaspard is out of the way.” The ladies looked at Bridget long enough to be certain the message had been well and truly delivered, then ended the interview, bowing, and floated off together.

Her head was spinning when they left, so she was relieved to see Cullen nearby. He looked anything but pleased to be at the ball. Several young women, and a couple of young men, were hovering around him, looking fascinated, and he kept frowning at them. He greeted Bridget with a much wider smile than she usually got from him. “Do you need something? Tell me you need something.” He shook his head, steering her a little away from his entourage and lowering his voice. “The sooner we track down this infiltrator, the better.”

“Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary?”

“Not yet.” He frowned. “It would be easier if people would stop talking to me.”

“It’s a ball, Cullen! They’re here to talk to people. I suppose you could try dancing,” she said teasingly.

“Surely you jest.”

“No advice for me, then?”

“Hardly. Orlesian social events do not fall within my area of expertise. But … remember that there are few people here we can trust. Be careful.”

“I will,” she assured him. “Fortunately for me, I don’t seem to have quite your following. Who are all those people?”

He grimaced. “I don’t know, but they will not leave me alone, no matter how hard I try to put them off.”

“You could consider enjoying yourself.” Bridget chuckled at the look he gave her.

“At this point, the headache I’m developing is preferable to the company.”

“Well, then, in that case, I’m sorry I have to abandon you to them.”

“Inquisitor!” he called after her, but she smiled and waved him back to his entourage, enjoying the sight of the serious Cullen surrounded by light-hearted party guests.

After she left Cullen, she went in search of Leliana, looking for her spymaster’s guidance. 

Leliana was pleased to see her as well. “I have been looking for you. You have done well so far.” They walked together. Leliana gazed down at the shoes of a woman they passed, and nudged Bridget. “Look at those slippers. Trimmed with pearls and emeralds.” She shook her head and clucked her tongue. “And those buckles. Toss her into the lake, and she’ll sink right to the bottom. What a disaster.”

Bridget frowned at her. “There’s a Tevinter assassin on the loose, and you’re concerned about shoes?”

Leliana shrugged, chuckling. “Everyone needs a hobby. Besides, you can learn a great deal about a person from their clothing.”

“Such as?”

“Gold and jewels on a dancing slipper—a slipper is easily lost, and even more easily soiled. Lady Cambienne is unconcerned with the possibility of losing the shoe or damaging it. It’s a vulgar display of wealth any way you look at it. But when you know as well that Lady Cambienne’s family has recently lost most of its holdings, the grandness of the shoe becomes quite intriguing. How did she acquire it? What has she done? Who has she bedded? Very useful questions, don’t you think?”

Bridget looked at her with curiosity. “You seem different here. More … approachable, perhaps.”

“This is Halamshiral, Inquisitor, the Imperial Court. The beating heart of the Great Game. All this—the smiles and the small talk—it is a dance. And like any dance, it can be learned. And when you are good at it …” Her eyes were lit from within, bright briliiant blue. “Oh, what fun it is.”

It seemed to Bridget very like what she felt sometimes when she used her magic. She said as much to Leliana, who nodded.

“Likely so. Oh, I do like that imagery. Yes.”

“Have you seen anything?”

Leliana shook her head. “Halamshiral is lousy with secrets and scheming … but no sign of our Tevinter infiltrator, I’m afraid.” She looked around to see who was nearby, and drew Bridget into a convenient antechamber. “There is one thing I wanted to talk to you about particularly. But first—what did the Duke say?”

“He points the finger at Ambassador Briala.”

“Naturally he does. Anything else?”

Bridget relayed what she had learned about Florianne.

“Most interesting. I cannot imagine Florianne taking an interest in politics … but she bears watching.”

“What was this other thing you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Empress Celene is fascinated by mysticism—foreseeing the future, speaking with the dead.” She grimaced. “That sort of rubbish.” An even more sour look crossed her face. “She has an ‘occult advisor’, an apostate who charmed the Empress and key members of the court as if by magic.”

“Blood magic?” Bridget echoed doubtfully. “In the Imperial Court?”

“Yes, you would think there would be systems in place to prevent such things, wouldn’t you?” She shook her head. “I’ve had dealings with this apostate in the past. She is ruthless and intelligent and capable of anything.”

Not unlike Leliana herself, Bridget thought. “How can Celene openly keep an apostate in the Imperial Court? Surely she would rather use a Circle mage in that position?”

“The Empress’s skirts are wide, Inquisitor, more than wide enough for a clever apostate to hide behind. And of course, with the Circles in rebellion, technically now every mage is an apostate—even you. The word has lost much of its strength. At any rate, she is worth investigating. We can’t be sure of anything here. And in the meanwhile, you should look into the passage in the guest wing. I can get you inside—just be careful.”

Bridget had no intention of being anything other than careful. She made her way through the guest wing carefully, studying things as well as she could while being aware of the time passing. If the Court noticed she was gone, it would look suspicious, and she couldn’t risk tipping their hand, not knowing who was involved. She didn’t find much. Some secrets to turn in to Leliana, and some more indications that the elves were well and truly under Briala’s thumb, but she wasn’t sure that meant Briala was the assassin.

As she closed the door of the guest wing behind her, a cool and mocking voice spoke from the shadow of the stairs. “Well, well. What have we here?”

A beautiful, if remarkably overdressed, woman came down the stairs toward her. It was as if she had put on every piece of finery she could lay her hands on—and yet the abundance of clothes and ornaments didn’t detract from her exotic beauty. Hair as black and glossy as a raven’s wing, eyes as golden as a cat’s. This had to be the apostate Leliana had mentioned.

“The leader of the new Inquisition, fabled Herald of the faith,” the apostate continued. It felt as though every word had been carefully chosen to insult Bridget personally. “Delivered from the grasp of the Fade by the Hand of Blessed Andraste herself.”

“It was the Divine,” Bridget corrected stiffly.

“Which does not make for half so enticing a story.” The apostate gave a chilly smile. “Now, what could bring such an exalted creature here to the Imperial court, I wonder. Do you even know?”

Bridget forced a smile. The woman was clearly trying to provoke her, and she would resist that as long as she could. “We may never know,” she said lightly. “Courtly intrigues and all that.”

“Such intrigues obscure much, but not all.” She nodded her head, slowly, as if conferring a great favor. “I am Morrigan. Some call me advisor to Empress Celene on matters of the arcane.”

Tempted though she was to tell Morrigan what Leliana had called her, Bridget nodded in return, aping the other woman’s grandeur.

“You have been very busy this evening, poking about in the dark corners of the palace. Perhaps you and I hunt the same prey.”

“Do we?”

“You are being coy, Inquisitor.”

“I am being careful, Morrigan.”

Morrigan nodded. “That is not unwise, here of all places. Allow me to speak first, then.” She paused, leading Bridget to a vantage point from which they could see anyone approaching them. “Recently,” Morrigan continued in a lower voice, “I found, and killed, an unwelcome guest within these walls. An agent of Tevinter.” She reached out, placing a key in the middle of Bridget’s gloved palm. “I took this from his body.”

“This is a key to what?”

“I cannot say. I had intended to discover that answer. Yet if Celene is in danger, I cannot leave her side long enough to search. You can. She is safe enough for the moment, but I must return to her anon.” Morrigan frowned. “’Twould be a great fool who strikes at her in public, in front of all her court and the Imperial guard, but that does not mean it will not be attempted.”

“If you hadn’t killed the agent, we might have all the answers we need,” Bridget said.

She had wondered if Morrigan would take offense, but the apostate nodded. “I would not have slain him on sight had he not attacked me first and left me no other choice. ‘Tis a pity.” She shook her head. “I did not know whence he came until after he was dead. I regret that I could not capture him alive.” Morrigan gave Bridget a sidelong look. “What intentions the Imperium has here, I suspect you know far better than I.”

Bridget looked down at the key in her hand. “I’ll find out what this goes to.”

“Proceed with caution, Inquisitor. Enemies abound—not all of them aligned with Tevinter.” 

As Morrigan glided away from her, Bridget wondered—was she one of those enemies?


	34. Servants' Quarters

Inside the ballroom, Bridget found Blackwall standing along the sidelines trying to look inconspicuous. Although how a man as attractive as he was could hope to be overlooked in this crowd of overly painted and perfumed popinjays, Bridget didn’t know. His manly good looks were a breath of fresh air in the crowded ballroom. She slipped her arm through his and was relieved to see him smile at her. She knew he was uncomfortable here in the Winter Palace, and put his previous snappishness down to that discomfort. 

She squeezed his arm. “You look so happy to be here.”

He inched closer so that she could feel the warmth of his body pressed against her. “I am now.”

“Have you seen anything?”

“I just witnessed the start of a blood feud between three noble families. Entertaining, if it wasn’t so tedious. But as for anything useful … no.”

“Hm.” Bridget was disappointed but not overly surprised. She hadn’t expected the night to be easy, had she? “Will you save me a dance?”

At that he turned, taking one of her gloved hands and lifting it to his lips. “All my dances are yours, my lady.”

Bridget barely resisted the temptation to kiss him. “Good.”

He cleared his throat and stepped back, to Bridget’s mingled disappointment and relief. After all, they couldn’t afford to be distracted. “Have you heard the servants whispering?”

“Not really. I’ve had my hands full with the nobility.”

“In that case, I think we should investigate the servants’ quarters.” He explained about the various conversations he had overheard. 

Bridget took the key out of her pocket. “I wonder if that’s where this goes to.”

“Where did you get that?”

“From an apostate. It’s a long story. Will you go find the others?”

“Of course. We’ll meet you at the door.”

It took some time, but eventually they were assembled at the door. Bridget had already turned the key in the lock, ensuring that it was the right one, and now she pushed the door open.

The door must have been sealed very well, because immediately when it was opened the coppery smell of blood struck them. Bridget moved into the room, motioning Vivienne, who was bringing up the rear, to pull the door closed behind her. 

All around them lay the bodies of servants, killed quickly and efficiently, mostly by single stab wounds.

Blackwall nodded grimly. “That explains the incompetence of the servants at the ball.”

“Yes,” Vivienne agreed, “and the arrogance. They aren’t the real servants, and they wish us all to know. Which we do.”

“Has no one remarked on it?” Bridget asked.

“They have. They appear to believe Celene has lost her servants in the prosecution of the war, which is a fairly preposterous notion, but has been enough to pacify them. No doubt Briala put the rumor about, to cover her replacement of the servants.”

“So you suspect the fair Briala of being poised to end Celene’s reign?” Varric asked.

“She appears marginally more likely to do so than Gaspard.”

Bridget didn’t disagree, but she was too shocked by what she was seeing to engage with the conversation. She was used to death by now—but that was on battlefields. This had been murder, brutal and cold. “Why would they have done this?” she asked.

“You always kill the servants first, my dear, lest they run and warn someone.” Vivienne glanced over the bodies with a noble’s callous attitude toward elves.

“The defenseless are always the first casualties of war,” Blackwall agreed. He reached for Bridget’s hand, squeezing it, and that was a small measure of comfort … but not much.

She couldn’t stand here, not in the middle of all this. She had to keep moving and find out what had happened, and why.

They made their way through the servants’ quarters, finding more dead, but no more answers. A door at the end of the warren of rooms opened on the kitchen gardens, and through them the path led to the formal gardens. Bridget tried not to think about how long they had been away from the ball. Surely their absence would be noticed. They had to hurry—but they had to find out, as well.

The formal gardens had been empty of bodies, but one awaited them in front of the fountain. No spray of blood here, just a dagger with an intricately carved handle protruding from the corpse’s back. And this was no servant—he was human, and dressed like the nobility. 

Blackwall hunkered down next to the body, careful not to disturb anything. “What was he doing here?”

Vivienne bent over, squinting a bit in the dim torchlight as she looked over the man’s clothes. “This is an emissary from the Council of Heralds. Curious to find him here.”

Bridget saw that what she had taken for nobles’ clothes was in fact livery. 

Looking more carefully at the handle, Vivienne shook her head. “Perhaps I have been hasty. This knife bears the Chalons family crest. Gaspard’s crest.”

“So one more time we have clues pointing both ways.” Varric frowned thoughtfully. “If I was writing this, that would mean a third party was trying to deflect suspicion from themselves.”

“Grand Duchess Florianne, possibly?”

“My dear, what could she have to gain?” Vivienne protested.

“The throne? If Celene dies and Gaspard is blamed for it …”

“Florianne has never shown the faintest sign of such an ambition. She lives for parties!”

“People change,” Blackwall said brusquely.

“I suppose,” Vivienne conceded, albeit reluctantly.

From the darkness, a servant came running, and behind her a troop of soldiers, Tevinters from the armor, one of whom slashed his pair of daggers across the servant’s back. She fell without another sound, her blood spreading out from beneath her fallen body.

The rest of the Tevinters took aggressive stances, and Bridget’s team immediately prepared for battle. She wondered if the sounds could be heard in the ballroom, and surmised that any guest who might glimpse them would think it was just a pageant staged by Celene for their entertainment. At least, she hoped that was what they would think, rather than rolling their eyes and whispering that wasn’t it just like the Inquisition to brawl so vulgarly in the middle of a party. The second one seemed more likely, and only hastened Bridget’s urgent desire to return to the ballroom before their absence was remarked on.

When it was over, they straightened themselves up as best they could, although Bridget was certain Josephine would despair of them, and found a way through a side window back inside the palace. The rooms were silent, much of the furniture shrouded in sheets, and Bridget wondered why anyone needed so much clearly unused space as this.

An elf awaited them, wearing a mixture of elven servants’ clothes and fancy garments.

“Briala,” Vivienne said in a low voice.

Even as she spoke, Briala came toward them. Her gaze flicked over the others, resting a moment on Vivienne, before settling on Bridget. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“I might say the same.”

“Once this palace was my home.” Briala looked wistfully around her. “I admit I miss it occasionally.” She looked back at Bridget. “And you, Inquisitor, shouldn’t you be dancing? What will the nobility say?”

“Yes, no doubt there’s a line of people breathlessly awaiting dances with me.”

“You might be surprised. You are the novelty du jour, after all.” Briala motioned Bridget to step out onto a moonlit balcony. In a tone that seemed more sincere than her previous mocking comments, Briala said, “Thank you. I came down to save or avenge my missing people; you have done that for me.”

“Your people? I thought these were the palace servants, and those serving were your people.”

“They are all my people, Inquisitor. All of us working together toward a common goal.” She changed tone again, this time brisk and businesslike. “The Council of Heralds emissary in the courtyard—that isn’t your handiwork, is it?”

“Is it yours?”

“What purpose would there be in that?”

“What purpose could I have?”

They held each other’s gazes, until at last Briala nodded. “You’re right. Celene is better for you than Gaspard, whatever he might claim. And I have no wish to see Gaspard on the throne, either. He is too much a soldier to care about domestic issues such as the rights of elves. In that case, it is someone else who threatens the peace of this evening with Tevinter soldiers and assassins.”

Bridget was tempted for a moment to share her suspicions of Florianne, but she didn’t know Briala well enough to be able to trust her with such suppositions. After all, whatever she said, Briala could still be the one in league with Corypheus. It wouldn’t do to tip the Inquisition’s hand now.

Briala wasn’t paying attention to Bridget, anyway. She was looking around wistfully again. Almost to herself, she said, “There was a time when Celene trusted me, when I would have had my spies at her disposal and would already have known from which direction the danger threatens.” Her face hardened. “Until she betrayed me to save her political reputation.”

“You’re angry.”

“Not angry enough to jeopardize her life—or her rule. I know what side is best for me and my people. Besides, it wasn’t personal. It’s the Game. The Game is how all Orlesians justify these things to themselves.”

“And if Gaspard wins tonight at the negotiations?”

Briala smiled. “Why do you think I am here at the ball, rather than speaking with Celene in private, Inquisitor? To gain access to Gaspard. He may not be as progressive or persuadable as his cousin, but with time—and sufficient blackmail—he might be convinced to work with us.”

“Not a very solid hope to hang on.”

“Hence my concern for Celene’s well-being.” She gave a brief tight smile, without humor. “I shouldn’t keep you any longer from the ball, Inquisitor. Your reputation will not be helped if they have to look for you to gawk at and gossip about you.”

Bridget nodded and ducked back through the window into the deserted hallway. Her people were waiting farther down, near a door, and she joined them, shaking her head when they asked to be caught up. “I’d be very surprised if it was her.”

Vivienne was skeptical of her ability to make the determination, Bridget could tell, but Blackwall and Varric both nodded, taking her word for it.

They scattered as they re-entered the ball, to make it less obvious that they were all coming in together. Bridget found Gaspard at her elbow almost as soon as she had stepped through the doorway. “My friend! There you are! Come and have a drink.”

Privately, Bridget thought it sounded as though Gaspard had already had more than sufficient, but she smiled and allowed him to lead her to an elf carrying a tray of champagne. Gaspard tossed his off in three quick swallows, while Bridget took a sparing sip.

“The Court appears to find you quite charming, you know, Inquisitor,” he said, putting the empty glass back on the tray and waving the elf off. He sighed. “If only I knew how to be charming. My cousin Celene—now, she is charming. She charmed the Council of Heralds, you know, taking the throne that rightfully should have been mine.”

“Oh?” Bridget said noncommittally.

“Yes. She is a politician, while I—“ He puffed up his chest. “I am a man of action. And I intend to take my crown back.”

Bridget wondered uneasily if he was about to confess to being involved in the assassination plot. That would certainly make things easier, although who would believe her if she reported his claim? “How?” she asked. “Are you claiming her crown, or her head?”

Gaspard gaped at her. “Her head? Who said anything about her head?” He shook his violently. “My dear Inquisitor, if Celene loses her head, I assure you it will not be my doing.” With a little shrug, he added, “I would not weep particularly hard at her demise, but I have no intention of being the cause of it.”

“But you threatened the Council of Heralds.”

“Of course I did. Most of them are Celene’s lapdogs—it was the only way I could hope to gain their cooperation.” He puffed himself up again. “The Empire has been mired in intrigue for too long. We need a man of action at the helm. Yes. A man of action.”

“What actions do you have in mind, exactly?”

“The Empire is in decline. A disgrace, really. We cannot allow Nevarra and Ferelden to continue to chip away at our borders as they have been doing.”

“So you want to fight more wars?”

“War is what I know, Inquisitor. I intend to prove that skilled chevaliers are better than diplomacy.”

Bridget restrained herself from raising her eyebrows in disbelief. Even she knew more about statecraft than that. “And the negotiations?” she asked. “How will they go?”

“Oh, we will whittle one another down with words until we are bored into agreement. Celene will talk circles around us, the elf will glower, and I … I will get very drunk. Somehow, by the time they stop serving drinks, a war will be ended.”

It sounded like an incredibly ineffient way to run an empire, and one with little concern for those who lived in it, but Bridget knew better than to voice that thought in the middle of the ball. “What calamities befall us if they stop serving drinks early?”

Gaspard laughed. “If we’re lucky, another war will break out.” He sighed. “I cannot abide the Game, my friend, that is no secret. I prefer my enemies armed and facing me. I like clear winners and losers.”

This man would be a disaster as leader of Orlais, Bridget was certain of that now. “Well, I will leave you to get started on your drinking,” she said to him, a little bit sadly. She liked him much better than she did most at this party, but she couldn’t support him.

“By all means.” As she walked away, he was already in search of another elf with drinks.

Bridget hadn’t gone far before she found Celene’s three handmaidens in front of her, skirts swaying as they bent back and forth, gloved hands fluttering in front of them. “Oh, Inquisitor! There you are!”

She had a moment of panic, not wanting to admit that she had been gone, afraid that if they had noticed so had Celene. “Uh … yes, so I am,” she stammered.

“And here we are!”

They all looked at her expectantly. She cast about for a conversational topic, at last settling on the question no one had yet answered to her satisfaction. “Tell me, why hold peace talks during a ball?”

The expectant looks changed to confusion, and a little pity. “Naturally when one has a moment of great solemnity, it should be celebrated with revels and feasts. And a joyous occasion calls for reflection and contemplation.”

“Of course. I should have thought of that myself.”

“No doubt you would have, Inquisitor,” they assured her. “After all, we must never forget that life is both bitter and sweet.”

It was possibly the best explanation for Orlais Bridget had heard yet. She filed it away to remember later. “What does the Empress hope to accomplish in the negotiations?”

“Peace, Inquisitor. Only that.”

Peace on her own terms, of course, Bridget knew. 

“The war must end tonight,” the ladies continued. “And Celene must prevail. The Grand Duke has no skill at the Game. He would be eaten alive were he to take the throne, and so subtly that he would have no idea it was happening until it was too late.”

Bridget could readily believe that. There was no doubt in her mind who the Inquisition should support in the negotiations—if they could only keep her from being killed first.


	35. Chapter 35

As she looked for Leliana’s bright red hair amongst the masked crowd, Bridget was startled to find herself suddenly face to face with the Grand Duchess Florianne. 

“Lady Inquisitor.”

“Your Grace.” Bridget bowed with what she hoped was sufficient honor.

“Welcome to my party.”

Bridget had been under the impression it was Celene’s party, but she deemed it unwise to argue about it. 

“Come, Inquisitor. We have much to talk about.” She gestured with her head toward the dance floor as the music shifted to a slower strain. Bridget knew this dance; Blackwall had taught it to her. “There are fewer ears upon the dance floor.”

“Very well, Your Grace. If it pleases you, we shall dance.” She held her arm out for Florianne to take.

“How delightful. And here I was afraid you would be tiresome and Fereldan about the idea.”

“I am from the Free Marches, Your Grace.”

“Of course you are.” Florianne’s tone made it clear she didn’t see much difference between the two. 

They took their places on the dance floor. Bridget tried to prepare herself mentally for the dance and for the fencing match of words she was sure was coming. Whether Florianne was the agent of Corypheus she sought or whether she was merely playing the Game, much depended on Bridget being able to meet her jibe for jibe.

“How much do you know about our little war, Inquisitor?” Florianne began, floating across the floor with one hand lightly clasped in Bridget’s.

“Surely not enough. What do you think I ought to know?”

They took long, measured steps down the length of the dance floor as Florianne sighed heavily. “My brother and my cousin have been at each other’s throats for far too long. It took great effort to arrange tonight’s negotiations. Yet one party would use this occasion for the blackest treason. The security of the Empire is at stake.” She twirled into Bridget’s arms, standing face to face. “I am certain neither one of us wishes to see it fall.”

As Florianne stepped back, she curtseyed, and Bridget bowed. Straightening, she clasped hands with Florianne, moving in a stately circle. “I think I can agree with that.”

“You have lifted a terrible burden from my heart, Inquisitor.” As they circled one another, Florianne continued, “The world is filled with doubt and uncertainty. Fear rules more hearts than any empire.” They were dancing in each other’s arms now, sweeping around the floor. “I know that you arrived this evening as a guest of my brother, Inquisitor, and that you have been everywhere in the Palace searching for answers … You are a curiosity to many—and a concern to some.”

“And which am I to you, Your Grace?”

Florianne smiled. “A little of both.” She studied Bridget’s face with interest. “This evening is a matter of great importance, Inquisitor. I wonder what role you will play in it.”

Bridget could have said the same to Florianne, but she kept that suspicion to herself. Voicing it now would do no good.

“Do you even know yet who is friend and who is foe?” Florianne continued. “Do you know who in the court can be trusted?”

“An excellent question, Your Grace,” Bridget replied, not wishing to tip her hand by naming names. “I might ask the same of you.”

Florianne laughed lightly, clinging to Bridget’s shoulders as Bridget waltzed her around the floor. “In the Winter Palace, everyone is alone.”

Over the Grand Duchess’s shoulder, Bridget saw Blackwall. His scowl brightened when their eyes met, and she let her eyes smile at him, although she dare not smile with her mouth. She, at least, was not alone here in the Winter Palace—she had him.

Oblivious to Bridget’s distraction, Florianne was still talking. “It cannot have escaped your notice that certain parties are engaged in dangerous machinations tonight.”

“This is Orlais,” Bridget replied, noticing that they were now the only couple on the floor. The rest of the party was watching them avidly. “I thought ‘dangerous machinations’ were the national sport.”

They spun into the big finish, and Bridget dipped Florianne, saying a silent prayer to Andraste that she wouldn’t drop the Grand Duchess on her rear end—much as she might deserve it.

As they straightened up, to the applause of the ballroom, Florianne hissed through her teeth, “You have little time, Inquisitor. The attack will come soon. You must stop Gaspard before he strikes. In the Royal Wing, you will find the captain of his mercenaries—he will tell you everything you wish to know.” She gave Bridget another curtsey and hurried off in a swirl of skirts, leaving Bridget to wonder why she had given her brother up so quickly.

As she left the dance floor, Josephine caught her by the arm. The Ambassador’s eyes were sparkling. “We should take you dancing more often! You will be the talk of the court for months.”

“I’m just glad I didn’t trip and fall on my face.”

“Far from it, Inquisitor.”

“And the Duchess had some very interesting things to say.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.” Josephine steered Bridget through the admiring crowds to a relatively open area. Leliana and Cullen joined them, the four of them standing very close together to avoid being overheard as much as possible.

“Did my eyes deceive me or were you dancing with Duchess Florianne?” Leliana asked. “Well done, Inquisitor.”

Cullen made an impatient gesture, dismissing the dancing. “More importantly, what happened in the servants’ quarters?”

Josephine’s momentary elation had faded into her more customary worried expression. “I do hope you have good news. It appears the peace talks are crumbling before they have even begun.”

Bridget shook her head. “The Grand Duchess tried to convince me that Gaspard is the traitor—but I have a hard time swallowing that story. He simply doesn’t have the subtlety.”

“Florianne and her brother have always been thick as thieves,” Leliana offered. “But she would give him up in an instant to save herself.”

“Then … the attack on the Empress will happen tonight,” Cullen said.

“We should warn Celene.” Bridget looked to Josephine for agreement, but the Ambassador frowned.

“That would be pointless. She needs these talks to succeed, and to flee would be to admit defeat.”

“What if we didn’t stop the attack?” Leliana suggested.

Bridget looked at her in shock. “Do you know what you’re saying? I won’t stand by and let her be killed!” 

“Corypheus wants chaos. If we save Celene and lose his assassin, that could still happen.”

“She’s right,” Cullen said. “As long as someone emerges victorious, and with a strong hand on the reins of the Empire, it doesn’t need to be Celene.”

“Do you realize what you are saying?” Josephine demanded.

“Sometimes the best path is not the easiest one. You know that, Josie.”

Bridget took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, trying to think. “We came here to save Celene,” she said at last. “And that’s what I intend to do.”

“In that case, we must save both her life and her Empire. Are you ready to do that, Inquisitor?”

“It would mean giving her a clear victory over both Gaspard and Briala,” Josephine added.

“Well, if there is proof of Gaspard’s duplicity, that would be a start.” Cullen looked at Bridget. “You said the Grand Duchess gave you information?”

“She did, although I’m not entirely inclined to trust it. She told me to go to the Royal Wing and find Gaspard’s mercenary captain, that he would be able to give me incriminating information.” 

Cullen frowned. “It could be a trap.”

“Yes,” Bridget agreed, “that’s how it feels.”

“Well, then, you are forewarned,” Leliana said decisively. “But you must investigate.”

“Yes, I suppose I must. I’ll gather the others.”  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
It was while he was watching Bridget dance, admiring her coolness and the smooth execution of the steps, remembering the joy it had been to teach her, that Blackwall finally heard the name he had been dreading to hear all night.

Two men were speaking loudly not far from him. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that they weren’t concerned about being overheard, but they had no idea that the real Thom Rainier was anywhere within earshot. That was a relief—but the words that followed weren’t. 

“And they have no idea where he might be hiding?” 

“He could be dead for all they know,” sniffed the second man, a dandy in a feathered headdress. 

“I hope he is, the traitor.” The second man’s bearing marked him as ex-military.

“At least they have caught this other man, Mornay or something like that. And he will hang as he deserves.”

“I intend to be there. What they did was a disgrace to all of Orlais.” 

The two of them moved off, their conversation turning to something else, but Blackwall had heard enough. Mornay. After all these years. How could he have been so careless as to let himself get caught? Of course, that was a fine sentiment coming from someone standing in the middle of the Winter Palace without even a mask to conceal his identity. Blackwall reached up to touch his beard, reassuring himself that it was still there.

He remembered Mornay, a bit of a weasel, really, hanging on Thom Rainier’s coat-tails, taking his castoffs—clothes, women, whatever Rainier no longer had a use for. Now he would take the rope that was meant for Rainier as well.

Blackwall stopped short, staring blankly ahead of him, only aware that he was in the middle of a busy throng of people when a woman’s sharp heel dug into his foot. “Sorry,” he muttered, moving aside, his thoughts still in a turmoil. Could he let Mornay hang? The man had done only what Blackwall—Thom Rainier—had ordered him to do. He hadn’t even been paid for it, for the Maker’s sake! Only Rainier had gained coin from what they did. The others had followed blindly, believing they were doing the right thing, believing it even as they opened the carriage doors and saw what—who—was inside.

Blackwall winced. He deserved whatever was done to him. They all did. Only monsters killed children, regardless of whatever their political convictions might be, regardless of who ordered it or why. Mornay deserved to hang.

But he, Blackwall, he had been behind it all. He hadn’t stopped it; hadn’t even tried. Did he deserve to be standing here a trusted member of the Inquisition, loved by the most extraordinary woman in Thedas, spending long nights in her arms? Surely that was far more happiness than he ought ever to have tasted in his life.

On the other hand, Bridget depended on him. He remembered that look across the ballroom as she danced with Florianne, the way her eyes had met his, the smile that had lain in their blue depths, the knowledge that if she was amazing the crowd at the Winter Palace, it was because of the skills he had taught her. If he took himself away from her now, what would she do? Would he be damaging the cause of the Inquisition by undermining the confidence of the Inquisitor? 

Or was that simply the convenient excuse he made for himself to get out of suffering the consequences of his actions?

Either way, Mornay would hang. And it would be the fault of Blackwall. Thom Rainier. Whoever the Void he was. Could he live with that, with one more comparatively innocent life staining his already dirty hands? At what point would there be too much blood on his hands to ever be cleansed?

“Hey, Broody Beard. Sunflower’s looking for us. Work to be done,” Varric said at his elbow.

“Oh, is she? Good. I was getting bored standing around,” he replied to the dwarf, glad to have fighting to do. At least that was clean and simple and he knew the answers. The question of Rainier and Mornay could wait until another time.


	36. The Grand Duchess

Bridget and the others made their way through the Royal Wing. Feeling that they were closing in on their assassin, Bridget worried less about having left the ball; let the nobles disapprove of her if they wanted. She was saving their Empress—they would appreciate that or not, depending on their own goals and desires.

In what turned out to be Florianne’s bedroom, she found a dying elf, managing to get enough from her to discern that she had been lured here to her death, no doubt to keep her quiet about something she knew.

“You know what this means, don’t you?” Blackwall asked.

“That Florianne’s promise of finding proof against Gaspard is also a trap, meant to lure me in and kill me? Yes, I’m getting that impression.” Bridget sighed, weary of the ball, the people, the Game, and everything that went along with them.

“But you’re going ahead, aren’t you?”

“Forewarned is forearmed, isn’t that what they say? Besides, if we don’t investigate, she’ll know we’re suspicious of her.”

Blackwall grumbled, but his objections subsided.

Bridget moved on further into the wing. Construction was going on here, furniture shrouded in white cloths, scaffolding leaning against the walls. Through a door she could hear someone shouting, and she traded a glance with Blackwall.

“Well, if you must do this,” he said gruffly, and he pushed the door open and went through it first, shield held high.

There was a scuffle, and then silence. After a moment, Bridget heard the high, unpleasant voice of Florianne. “Come out, Inquisitor. We have your lover, and he is making it very difficult to hold him. We wouldn’t want him to come to harm, now, would we?”

Varric caught her arm when she would have rushed out. “Sunflower. No point in all of us being taken.”

“And if we let her kill Blackwall and then run off to kill the Empress, what then, Varric? Where are we?” Bridget shook her head. “Whatever the trap is, I’d rather face Florianne than hide in here.”

“Well spoken, my dear,” Vivienne said approvingly. “I am behind you.”

“Good.” Bridget nodded, taking a deep breath, then stepped through the door. Instantly the Anchor in her hand started sparking. There was a rift in the middle of the courtyard, not open yet, but on the verge of it. She would have to open it and let the demons within through in order to close it.

Florianne looked down at her triumphantly; Blackwall gazed at her in despair even as he struggled against the hold several of Florianne’s people had on him. Archers ringed the courtyard, as well. Florianne had attempted to leave nothing to chance.

“Inquisitor! How nice of you to join us. I thought love would overcome your caution.” Florianne shook her head, clucking her tongue. “Emotions are so inconvenient.” She smiled unpleasantly. “I was concerned you might not have taken my bait. Fereldans can be so thick.”

“Marchers.” Perhaps it didn’t matter, but anything to break up Florianne’s monologue and distract her.

Florianne fluttered a hand in the air. “There is little difference. Nonetheless, your meddling has ceased to amuse me, and the time is drawing near for the finale of the ball—the Empress’s death. Corypheus commands that she be removed from his path tonight, and I would hate to disappoint him.”

Bridget drew in a breath at the confirmation of their suspicions.

Varric was working his way slowly toward Blackwall, she could see. She couldn’t tell what Vivienne was doing, but she hoped the other mage would help Varric get Blackwall free. They would need his sword arm against the demons and the archers.

Florianne wasn’t paying attention. “I admit, I will relish the look on Gaspard’s face when he realizes that I have outplayed him. He always was a sore loser.”

“What, exactly, is in this for you, my dear? You have always enjoyed your luxuries—I foresee very few available under Corypheus,” Vivienne said sharply.

“Lady Vivienne. How short-sighted you are. When I deliver the entire south of Thedas to Corypheus, he will save me. And when he has ascended to godhood, I will rule all Thedas in his name.”

“You? You have no experience in ruling, no power. Why would Corypheus need you? You are nothing but a puppet.”

Florianne scowled. “I am no one’s puppet.”

“Believe what you will.”

“I am the one in control here—you will soon be believers, as well.”

“I’ve heard that claim before, from Corypheus himself,” Bridget told her. “It didn’t work for him; it won’t work for you.”

“So cocky, Inquisitor. And yet who are you really? Just a nobody.”

Varric had reached Blackwall, standing poised to attack the men holding him at Bridget’s signal. Vivienne was on the other side of the courtyard, staff in hand. 

Florianne was smiling to herself. “In their darkest dreams, no one imagines I would assassinate Celene myself.”

Bridget hoped Cullen and the others would take her suspicions seriously, and be on their guard. Given how much fighting there would be here in the courtyard, Florianne would almost certainly reach the Empress before Bridget could. She had to trust her advisors to preserve Celene’s life.

“A pity you will miss the rest of the ball, Inquisitor. They will be talking of it for years.” Florianne looked darkly at the archers. “Kill her. Bring me the marked hand as proof.”

And she was gone. Vivienne attacked the archers in front of her, freezing them with a great sweep of her staff. Varric and Blackwall between them made short work of the men who had been holding Blackwall. Bridget used the Anchor to open the rift and then immediately worked to close it, even while Vivienne and Varric attacked anything that tried to come through, and Blackwall took on the thawing archers hand-to-hand.

It was all over far more quickly than Florianne had imagined it could be, Bridget suspected, but still took much too long from the perspective of needing to catch Florianne before she reached the Empress.

As soon as she was certain the last of the rift was closed and the last of Florianne’s men was down, Bridget took off running for the ballroom. Vivienne kept pace with her. She was surprised to see how swiftly the other mage could run, since Vivienne usually had a very sedate, studied, elegant stride, but was glad of it, as well—without Vivienne at her side she would have made at least two wrong turns navigating the labyrinth that was Halamshiral.

Fortunately for everyone involved—except for Florianne and Corypheus—Florianne was Orlesian. Making the right entrance had been more important to her than getting the job done quickly; and she had drastically underestimated Bridget and her team. When Florianne caught sight of Bridget across the ballroom, her face paled visibly beneath the silver mask she wore.

She covered it well, Bridget had to give her that. No one who didn’t know what had just happened in the courtyard would imagine there was anything amiss. Gaspard, walking with his sister, cast a hard, suspicious eye over Bridget, but she paid no attention to him. It was Florianne she needed to stop.

Cullen appeared at her side, whispering frantically, “Thank the Maker you’re back! The Empress is about to begin her speech. What do want us to do?”

She put a hand on his arm. “Wait here, Cullen, while I have a word with the Grand Duchess. A few of them, even,” she added grimly. Blackwall was behind her now, and Varric, along with Vivienne. All three of them could attest to what had happened before—and Vivienne and Varric would be believed, regardless of what the court might think of her or of Blackwall or of the Inquisition itself.

“What?” Cullen’s whisper was louder now, people near them turning to see what they were talking about. “There’s no time! The Empress is going to begin at any moment!”

“Then let’s not waste any more time.”

She left him standing there, and strode across the dance floor purposefully, her eyes on Florianne as the Grand Duchess waited with Gaspard and Briala for Celene’s entrance.

“We owe the court one last show, Your Grace,” she said to Florianne’s deliberately turned back.

Florianne turned, poised and confident. She clearly still thought she was going to pull this off. “Inquisitor.”

Bridget mounted the steps toward her. “The eyes of every noble in the Empire are upon us, Your Grace. Remember to smile. This is your party, after all. You wouldn’t want them to think you had lost control, would you?”

The Grand Duchess fell back as Bridget came toward her, the smile she had plastered across her face looking a bit on the sickly side. “Who would not be delighted to speak with you, Inquisitor?” she said weakly.

“I seem to recall you trying very hard to keep me from returning to the ballroom to speak with you. Your archers weren’t very well trained, I have to say. I’ve faced much worse. When they failed to kill me in the garden, I was eager to return for one last dance.”

Florianne’s mouth opened and closed as she tried to think of a way to save herself. Bridget had to admit to being a little surprised at the way the Grand Duchess had fallen to pieces. She would have expected her to be able to think more quickly on her feet than she was at the moment.

Celene had appeared above them, and was listening intently, looking confused and dismayed. As well she might.

Bridget walked around behind Florianne, continuing, “It seems it is all too easy to fall from your good graces. You even framed your brother for the murder of a Council emissary. Hoping that your misdeeds would be laid at his door, were you?”

Gaspard drew in a shocked breath behind her, but Bridget went on before he could speak.

“It was an ambitious plan, Florianne, I’ll give you that. Celene, Gaspard, the entire Council of Heralds … all your enemies under one roof.”

“Enemies?” Gaspard objected. “Inquisitor, I think perhaps you—“

Florianne waved him to silence, recovering her poise at last. “This is all very entertaining, Inquisitor, but of course you do not imagine anyone believes your wild stories.”

“I believe them.” Vivienne’s voice rang clearly across the ballroom.

“As do I,” Josephine said.

Both women had significant status in Orlesian society. The crowds had begun to murmur, but they silenced after Josephine spoke.

“Your friends in the Inquisition are very loyal, but you have no proof.”

From above Florianne’s head came the decisive voice of the Empress. “I have heard enough that I believe a judge will be hearing the rest of this, and we will see where the verdict falls, cousin.”

Florianne’s eyes widened in panic as she felt victory slipping from her grasp. She turned to Gaspard. “Brother, you cannot believe this nonsense! You know that I would never—“

He turned from her without a word even as three of Celene’s guards came down the stairs toward Florianne. Briala went with him, both of them withdrawing from the ballroom. The talks were beginning now, then, Bridget surmised. At least they could continue knowing the Empress would be alive to participate in them. That was a relief. 

“Gaspard!” Florianne called desperately, falling back as the guards advanced. She turned her head this way and that, searching the crowd for anyone whose support she could count on, but she saw no one. Finally, her gaze settled on Bridget. “You! How dare you come in here and ruin everything I’ve worked for?”

“You lost this fight ages ago, Your Grace. You’re the only one who can’t see that.”

Florianne, defeated at last, more by the collapse of her plans and the loss of her own assumed superiority than by anything anyone had done against her, fell to her knees, holding her hands up for the guards in a gesture that asked for mercy. Celene might give it to her; Bridget no longer cared.

The guards led the weeping Grand Duchess away, even as the assembled nobility of Orlais lost interest in the scene and returned to their gossiping.


End file.
